GIFT  OF 
Elsa  Searing  McGinn 


ILbJA 


me 

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sorn 


oJL^V^T^vv^i^v 


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Echoes  of  Other 


HOWARD  GLYNDON 

(Laura  C.  R.  Searing) 


1921 

HARR  WAGNER  PUBLISHING  CO. 
San  Francisco,  California 


Copyrighted 

1921 
By  Elsa  Searing  McGinn 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

Dedication ...       ix 

Biography xi 

Portrait xxiv 

Preface     ....  .    xxv 


PART  I. 

Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers — 

The    Sleeping   Beauty 27 

Prelibatory 28 

Sweet  Bells  Jangled — 

A    Girl's    Subterfuges 30 

His  Picture  of  Her 33 

Transformation 34 

Found        36 

Ave    Caesar        37 

An  Idyl  of  Early  Spring 39 

A    Girl's   After-Singing 41 

Benediction       43 

Drifting    Apart 44 

Half    Awake 46 

A    Love-Letter 46 

No   Letters 50 

Not  for  Sale 52 

My   Talisman 54 

Tidings 55 

My  House  Upon  the  Sand 57 

Tempted         59 

Violet   Time 60 

Surmise 62 

Interposition 65 

Awakening         70 

Two  Letters  That  Were  Not  Sent     ...  73 

The  Meaning  of  a  Sigh  (His) 75 

Until  Then    (She) 75 

Alone  With  the  Night 77 

Living    Apart        78 

Who   Knows? 79 

A  Woman's  Heart 80 

Revocation 80 

Because  of  a   Letter 82 

Opportunity 83 


732214 


iv  Contents 

Page 

Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers — Continued. 
Sweet  Bells  Jangled — Continued. 

One    Moment 83 

Produced  in  Court 84 

Until  This  Last 85 

Out  of  Tune 86 

A    Later    Mood 87 

Worn    Out 88 

Last    June 90 

Near   Eventide 91 

A    Heart-Sob 92 

Broken  Links — 

Old  News 96 

Violets  in  Autumn 97 

Which  is  Best? 98 

The  Loosing  of  Lilith 99 

Christmas     Eve     Chant     of     the     Breton 

Peasants 102 

Broken   Off 105 

The  Missing  Steamer 106 

Dear    Mother 107 

A   Problem 109 

An   Empty   Nest Ill 

An    Unpremeditated   Answer 113 

In  Italy- 
Alma    Mater 114 

A  New  Legend 115 

The  Sequel  of  "A  New  Legend"     ....  119 

Clyte    Listening 121 

A  Sicilian  Midnight  Madrigal 122 

Mazzini 125 

At  the  Grave  of  Keats 127 

The  New-World  Exile  in  Italy 129 

A   Love-Song   of   Sorrento 132 

To  Him  Whose  Name  Signifies  a  Blessing  .  134 

Three   Symbols 134 

Lover's  Leaves — 

To  My  Rightful  Readers 136 

A  Rhyme  of  the  Maple-Tree 137 

Troth-Plight 138 

One  Kiss  Before  We  Part 140 

Entre    Nous 141 

Refusal 143 

Two  Songs  of  One  Singer — 

Couleur    de   Rose 144 

Hers   or   Mine 145 

Double-Beds 147 

Quits 148 


Contents  v 

Page 

Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers — Continued. 
Lover's  Leaves — Continued 

The   Door  Between 152 

Afraid 152 

Et   Tu? 153 

You  and  I 154 

Somebody  Knows 155 

Diana         157 

Blossom-Time 159 

Only  Her  Hand 160 

Enola       i 162 

Unawares 163 

Disowned 165 

Amy  at  the  Window 166 

Ruse  de  Guerre ..     .  168 

Last   Heart-Beats 171 

A   Woman's   Complaint 171 

Disarmed 173 

A  Love  Song 174 

For  the  Sake  of  Singing 175 

O  Doubting  Spirit  of  the  Age 176 

Portrait        178 

PAET  II. 

Facsimile  of  Letter  of  Abraham  Lincoln  to  Author  .     .  179 

Dedication 183 

Idyls  of  Battle — 

In  Time  of  War 185 

Left  on  the  Battle-Field 186 

To  the  Earnest  Thinkers 187 

After  the  Victories 188 

De    Profundis 190 

For  the  Stricken 191 

The   Story  of   Sumter 192 

Watch    Night 195 

The  Legend  of  Our  Victories 196 

The  Last  War  News 199 

Mitchell 201 

The  Fall  of  Lexington,  Missouri     ...:..  201 

Come  We  to  this? 203 

Baker 204 

Our   Sacrifice 205 

Union   Forever 206 

Eesurgam .  208 

On  the  Dead  List 209 

Belle    Missouri .  211 

Douglas 212 


vi  Contents 

Page 
Idyls  of  Battle — Continued. 

The  Snow  in  October 214 

To  a  Hero,  with  a  Sword 216 

To    a   Patriot 217 

Vicksburg      ....... 217 

Loyalty's  Last  Effort 219 

An   Appeal 220 

Truth   Is   Invincible 222 

Eanked    Higher 223 

The   Snow   at  Fredericksburg 224 

The  Battle  of  Gettysburg 226 

The  Graves  of  Gettysburg 228 

The   Eansomed  Banner 230 

Bringing   Him    Home! 231 

Preaching  in  Court 233 

Jefferson    Davis 235 

The  President's  Proclamation 236 

A  Greeting  for  a  New  Year 237 

A   Supplication 238 

The    Volunteer's    Eeturn 239 

Our   Cause 242 

My  Absent  Soldier 245 

L.  H.  R 246 

My    Story        247 

Waiting  for  Victory 249 

Charge  of  Blair's  Brigade  at  Vicksburg  ....  250 

Lost  in  the  Wilderness 251 

Butler's  Black  Brigade 252 

To  A.  E 254 

Kentucky's    Crittenden 254 

The    Quiet    Man 255 

H.  T.  B 256 

The    Last    Poem 257 

PAET  III. 
Later  Poems — 

Dippity 262 

Until  the  End  of  It 264 

One  Perfect  Day 264 

Sonnet       ,    , 266 

One  More  Angel 266 

To  Harry  James  Dwight,   Sleeping 267 

Found    Wanting 268 

The   Irrevocable   Trinity 270 

Give       270 

Forestalling   the    Ides 271 

First    and    Last                                                                .  272 


Contents  vii 

Later  Poems — Continued. 

Seniority 273 

The    Cup [275 

The  Emperor's  Return  to  Miramar 276 

Christmas    Greetings 280 

The   Open   Door 282 

Guessing 282 

War  Echoes — 

First   Thanksgiving  Anniversary  ....  284 

Grant's    the    Man 285 

The    Reason    Why 287 

Lincoln's   Re-election    (1864) 289 

After    Vicksburg 291 

Sherman        292 

Signalings 293 

To   Friends — 

To   John   Greenleaf   Whittier 295 

To  John   Elderkin 296 

Prisca        297 

Wilhelmine        '.....  299 

Love — 

Faust's  Margaret  at  the  Virgin's  Altar     .  301 

En    Passant 302 

Exorcism       303 

Lost 304 

The  Sweet  Old  Fashion  of  Loving     .     .     .  309 

Three  Flowers  in  One 311 

Rehearsal 315 

Grieve  Not  the  Heart  That  Loves  Thee  ....  317 

The  Sheaf  of  the  Years 317 

The  Pioneer  Women  of  California     ...  319 

The  Lesson  of  Our  Loss 321 

Nature — 

April   Sunshine 324 

In    Winter 325 

In  the  Sweet  May  Time 326 

A   Study 327 

"  'Tis  an  111  Wind,"  etc 328 

Winds  of   November 329 

A   Volcanic   Rose   Hedge 330 

The  Revolt  of  the  Waters 332 

A  Sound  of  the  Night 333 

To  a  Southwest  Wind  in  February     .     .     .  334 

Simpatica 335 

A  White  Rosebud  Half  Blown 335 

Four    Maples 336 

Apple  Blossoms  in  December 337 

The  Wine  Cup  of  the  Hills 339 


viii  Contents 

Page 
Later  Poems — Continued. 

Of  El  Dorado — 

Admission   Day 341 

The  Unveiling  of  the  Fountain     ....  343 

December  in   California 344 

May  in  California 346 

California  Gold 347 

A  California  Kose  Fair 348 

Del  Monte,  March,  '87 349 

A  Summer  Song  of  the  Sea 350 

The  Hills  of  Santa  Cruz 351 

The  Homes  of  Santa  Cruz 353 

California   Diamonds 355 

Capitola 356 

Memorial  Day  in  California  ......  358 

June 360 

An  Idyl  of  the  Eose 361 

Greetings  from  the  Tanana — 

Christmas  Eve  in  the  Tanana 363 

New  Year's  Day  in  the  Tanana     ....  364 

Nome    Glorified 364 

New  Year's  Greeting  to  Alaska     ....  366 
Prize    Poem— The    First    Dog    Team    Over 

the  Trail 367 

To  the   Arctic  Sun 368 

Death  Trap  of  the  Snows 369 


TO    MY   MOTHER. 

This  volume  of  poems  written  by  my  beloved  mother, 
Laura  Catherine  Redden  Searing,  has  been  compiled  by  me 
in  loving  thought  of  her  who  has  been  the  inspiration  of 
my  life,  my  ideal  of  womanhood,  and  my  treasured  com 
panion  since  childhood. 

May  my  children  and  their  children's  children  read,  mark, 
and  learn  the  story  of  her  who  gave  so  freely  of  love  and 
of  self,  and  whose  one  desire  was  to  be  of  service. 

ELSA  S.  McGINN. 

San  Mateo,  December,  1921. 


Biography  xi 


BIOGEAPHY. 

Laura  Catherine  Eedden  Searing,  known  to  the  literary 
world  as  "Howard  Glyndon/'  was  gifted  at  birth  with  the 
soul  of  a  poet.  Life  laid  an  apparent  handicap  upon  her  in 
early  childhood  when  depriving  her  of  her  hearing;  but, 
instead  of  allowing  that  misfortune  to  hamper  her  progress, 
she  verily  made  it  a  blessing.  Living  as  it  were  in  a  world 
of  silence,  she  voiced  her  thoughts  with  poetic  vision,  glad- 
deing  the  hearts  of  those  in  sorrow,  uplifting  the  weary 
and  discouraged,  and  holding  aloft  the  beacon  light  to  light 
others  on  to  success,  exemplifying  to  the  world  that  earnest 
endeavor  is  not  in  vain. 

Born  in  Somerset  County,  Maryland,  February  9,  1840, 
she  traces  her  lineage  through  her  maternal  grandfather  to 
Sir  William  Waller,  one  of  the  original  proprietors  of  Mary 
land,  and  farther  back  to  Edmund  Waller,  the  celebrated 
wit  and  poet  of  the  days  of  Cromwell  and  the  Restoration. 
Her  ancestry  is  in  close  collateral  line  with  that  of  the 
"great  and  good  John  Hampton,"  and  her  poetical  inspira 
tion  and  patriotic  fervor  came  to  her  from  direct  sources. 

In  early  childhood  her  parents  moved  to  Missouri,  and  it 
was  while  very  young  that  she  was  afflicted  with  the  illness 
which  darkened  her  life.  Her  own  account  of  that  period 
follows,  and  tells  its  tragic  story  with  a  characteristic 
directness. 

"HOW  I  LEAENED   TO  TALK   AGAIN." 

Losing  the  Voice  in  Childhood  and  Eecovering  It  in  Woman 
hood — An    Articulation    School — The    Experience    of 
"Howard  Glyndon." 

(Written  for  the  Evening  Star,  April  19,  1884.) 

I  became  deaf  suddenly  when  about  eleven  years  old  from 
acute  disease,  or  rather  from  a  complication  of  acute  dis 
eases.  I  had  up  to  that  time,  with  the  exception  of  an 
attack  of  ague  in  the  preceding  fall,  been  accounted  an 
unusually  healthy  child,  not  having  been  confined  to  my 
bed  by  any  sickness  since  infancy.  All  my  senses  were 
unusually  acute  and  my  organization  vigorous,  while  at  the 


xii  Biography 

same  time  extraordinarily  sensitive.  I  had,  however,  grown 
very  fast,  having  at  the  time  I  speak  of  almost  finished 
growing,  I  began  to  go  to  day  school  at  the  beginning  of 
an  unusually  severe  winter,  just  after  recovering  from  the 
ague,  for  which  I  had  been  given  large  quantities  of  qui 
nine.  This  may  have  weakened  the  system  of  a  growing 
child,  so  that  more  care  than  usual  was  necessary;  but,  as 
I  seemed  well,  no  notice  was  given  to  a  severe  cold  which 
I  took  about  two  weeks  before  Christmas.  It  ran  on  for  a 
week  or  so,  and  then  one  afternoon  I  came  home  with  such 
a  drowsy  feeling  that  I  at  once  threw  myself  on  a  bed,  and 
stupor  ensued.  I  remember  nothing  more  of  any  conse 
quence  until  weeks  afterwards,  when  I  awoke  as  from  a 
long,  deep  sleep,  and  saw  the  doctor  and  my  mother  stand 
ing  beside  my  bed  talking  together.  I  could  not  hear  any 
thing  they  said,  and,  possibly,  when  they  each  in  turn  spoke 
to  me,  I  only  stared  at  them,  though  perfectly  conscious. 
This  led  to  an  investigation,  when  it  was  discovered  that  I 
was  utterly  deaf.  During  my  convalescence  there  was  no 
way  to  talk  to  me  but  by  writing,  and  so  my  school  slate 
and  pencil  became  my  constant  companions. 

As  I  regained  health  examinations  of  my  ears  were  made 
and  different  forms  of  treatment  tried.  I  had  grown  totally 
deaf  in  both  ears  without  any  apparent  change  of  any  sort, 
and,  so  far  as  I  knew,  without  ever  having  had  any  trouble 
with  my  ears — not  so  much  as  a  pain  in  them.  Examina 
tions  told  nothing;  and,  after  everything  available  had  been 
tried  with  no  result,  the  doctors  suggested  that  the  nerve 
of  hearing  had  been  either  completely  destroyed  or  para 
lyzed.  From  that  time  to  this  I  have  not  heard  a  sound; 
but  I  have  been  quite  sensitive  to  vibrations,  which  convey 
many  sounds,  even  that  of  the  human  voice,  but  not  to  the 
extent  of  distinguishing  quality  and  tones,  not  to  say  words. 

As  I  began  to  mingle  again  with  others  this  peculiarity 
was  noticed;  that  my  voice  had  undergone  so  great  a 
change  that  those  who  had  known  me  previous  to  my  sick 
ness  testified  that  they  could  not  recognize  me  by  my  voice 
alone.  It  had  become  sepulchral,  like  a  voice  from  the 
grave.  Some  delicate  chords  of  my  throat  must  have  been 
injured  by  my  illness.  Indeed,  for  a  long  time  I  suffered  a 
great  deal  with  my  throat.  Speaking  was  to  me  an  effort, 
but  still  not  so  much  of  an  effort  but  that  I  could  have 
continued  to  talk  as  best  I  could,  only  some  of  my  family, 
with  injudicious  frankness,  told  me  how  unpleasant  my 
voice  had  grown.  Before  my  illness  I  had  an  unusually 
pleasant  voice,  it  was  said,  in  reading  and  in  singing,  as 
well  as  in  talking.  It  was  especially  spoken  of  as  being 
always  so  very  natural  and  spontaneous;  but  now  it  had 


Biography  xiii 

grown  unnatural  and  strained.  I  soon  began  to  be  sensitive 
about  using  it,  and  talked  less  and  less.  I,  however,  from 
time  to  time,  made  efforts  in  my  unaided  way  to  correct  the 
trouble,  but  receiving  no  assistance — for  none  then  knew 
how  to  help  me — I  grew  worse  and  worse.  After  a  few 
years  I  was  sent  to  a  sign  school,  and  contracted  the 
habit  there  of  relying  entirely  on  pencil  and  paper  for 
conversation  with  all  who  did  not  understand  signs  or  the 
manual  alphabet.  When  I  left  the  school,  after  being  there 
nearly  two  years,  and  returned  home  again,  although  I  still 
talked  at  home  and  was  partially  understood  by  the  mem 
bers  of  my  immediate  family,  I  abandoned  altogether  the 
attempt  to  talk  to  any  one  else.  Indeed,  the  fact  that  an 
outsider  was  listening  to  me  would  check  me  instantly.  In 
this  way  there  grew  up  in  me  a  nervous  impediment  of 
speech,  in  addition  to  other  drawbacks.  Yet  I  had  the  most 
intense  desire  to  use  my  voice  as  others  did,  though  cer 
tainly  it  was  enough  to  discourage  me  to  have  strangers 
stop  and  turn  around  curiously  at  the  sound  of  my  speak 
ing,  and  to  see  the  look  of  non-comprehension  on  the  face 
of  any  one  not  familiar  with  me,  if  I  addressed  them 
orally.  I  did  not  like  to  see  people  look  at  each  other  and 
ask,  "What  does  she  sayf  At  last  I  might  almost  be  said 
to  be  really  dumb  as  well  as  deaf;  and  this  continued  until 
1871.  About  that  time  I  heard  of  the  first  articulation 
school  ever  established  in  this  country,  the  Clarke  institu 
tion,  at  Northampton,  Mass.  It  owed  its  existence  to  a 
large  bequest,  left  for  the  purpose  of  establishing  it,  by 
Mr.  John  Clarke,  of  Northampton,  who  himself  became 
gradually  very  deaf,  and,  for  this  reason  probably,  had 
great  sympathy  with  other  deaf  people.  However,  the 
money  to  found  such  a  school  would  have  been  useless  for 
that  purpose  had  not  a  fitting  principal  been  found  in  the 
person  of  Miss  Harriet  Eogers,  of  Billerica,  Mass.  She  was 
a  sister  of  the  lady  whom  Dr.  Howe,  of  Boston,  selected  to 
have  charge  of  Laura  Bridgman  in  his  benevolent  experi 
ments  with  the  deaf,  dumb  and  blind  girl.  The  beginning 
of  Miss  Eogers'  career  as  a  teacher  of  articulation  and  lip 
reading  for  the  deaf  dated  from  her  taking  a  little  girl 
who  had  become  deaf  in  babyhood,  to  teach.  When  I  first 
went  to  the  Clarke  school  it  had  been  open  but  a  short 
time.  My  articulation  then  was  indistinct  and  often  un 
intelligible.  There  was  a  failure  to  sound  consonants  and 
gutturals  generally.  My  pronunciation  was  about  as  bad  as 
my  articulation;  but  perhaps  the  most  unpleasant  thing  was 
the  pitch  of  my  voice,  which  was  very  high — a  falsetto — 
and  strained,  while  my  enunciation  was  unusually  rapid. 
Of  all  these  things  I  was  not  at  the  time  aware.  I  only 


xiv  Biography 

know   that   I   did  not   speak   like   other   people,   and   that   it 
was  an  unpleasant  effort  for  me  to  speak. 

The  first  thing  done  was  to  teach  me  the  "sound"  or 
sounds  of  each  letter  in  tlie  alphabet.  We  all  learn  the 
"names"  of  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  but  few  of  us  are 
consciously  aware  that  the  name  of  the  letter  and  its 
sound  are  as  different  things  as  it  is  to  spell  a  word  by  the 
names  of  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  and  then  pronounce  it 
by  their  sounds.  This  drill  helped  me  to  analyze  the  sounds 
I  made,  and  to  know  HOW  I  made  them  was  a  great  help. 
I  learned  to  give  the  proper  sounds  by  placing  my  hand  on 
the  teacher's  throat  and  feeling  what  she  did  with  the 
muscles  of  the  throat  and  by  watching  the  position  of  the 
lips,  tongue  and  teeth,  and  their  movements  when  she  made 
a  given  sound.  I  also  learned  the  proper  pronunciation  of 
words,  accents  and  emphasis  in  the  same  way.  I  was  then 
put  through  a  vocal  drill  of  the  vowel  sounds  every  day. 
But  the  most  difficult  thing  of  all  was  to  get  me  to  use  the 
chart  tones.  I  at  first  had  110  conception  of  how  ii  was 
done,  and  for  months  my  teachers  labored  with  me,  and  I 
put  forth  all  my  powers;  but  it  seemed  as  if  I  should  never 
be  able  to  speak  a  single  sentence  in  a  low  key.  Every 
thing  was  tried,  all  sorts  of  experiments,  and  various  kinds 
of  vocal  gymnastics  as  well.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  I  could  not  hear  my  own  voice,  and  had  nothing  to 
guide  me  in  trying  to  train  and  modulate  it  but  my  sense 
of  feeling;  and  this  sense  of  feeling  had  to  be  educated 
before  I  could  trust  it;  and  so  for  a  long  time  I  would  not 
know  whether  I  went  right  or  wrong,  except  through  being 
told  of  it  by  those  who  heard  me.  All  the  re3t  that  I  might 
learn  would  avail  me  but  little,  unless  I  could  learn  to 
pitch  my  voice  properly.  With  what  secret  fears  and  heart 
burnings  and  impotent  desires,  and  baffled  efforts,  worked 
on  for  months!  The  unavailing  endeavor  seemed  to  consume 
my  life;  but  I  would  not  give  it  up.  My  teachers  very 
nearly  did,  however,  although  they  had  not  yet  spoken  of 
it  to  me;  when  one  day,  in  some  inexplicable  way,  I  struck 
the  right  pitch.  The  change  was  so  sudden  that  the  teacher 
who  was  with  me  could  not  at  first  realize  that  it  was  I 
that  spoke.  And  there  was  great  rejoicing  over  what 
seemed  little  short  of  a  miracle,  after  hope  had  been  aban 
doned.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  spoke  always  there 
after  with  my  newly  acquired  voice.  Habit  was  too  strong 
for  that.  But  what  I  had  done  once  I  could  do  again;  and 
at  last  I  could  analyze  the  way  in  which  I  did  but  pitch 
my  voice  at  will.  This  was  the  great  thing  to  accomplish, 
and  I  did  it.  Of  course  I  needed  constant  reminding  for 
quite  a  while  afterwards,  as  it  was  necessary  to  use  con- 


Biography  xv 

stant  watchfulness  to  prevent  me  from  falling  back  into 
old  ways,  and  in  moments  of  excitement  my  voice  would 
rise  to  the  old  shrill  key  and  the  false  pitch,  this  artificial 
method  of  speaking,  acquired  by  the  deaf  who  cannot  hear 
themselves,  and  have  not  been  trained  to  regulate  their 
voices  by  feeling  in  place  of  hearing.  There  was  still  a 
great  difficulty  to  be  overcome.  I  did  not  yet  speak  in  a 
natural  manner,  but  with  a  nervous  haste,  and  talking 
fatigued  me.  There  was  a  tightness  across  my  chest;  my 
breath  failed  me  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  What  was 
wrong?  Here  was  another  difficulty  to  be  surmounted.  For 
a  long  time  it  in  turn  baffled  me — how  to  acquire  that  natu 
ral  ease  which  would  make  speech  a  pleasure? 

About  this  time  Professor  Alexander  Graham  Bell,  who 
had  but  recently  come  to  this  country,  was  engaged  to  illus 
trate  and  teach  the  system  of  visible  speech  invented  by 
his  father,  Professor  Melville  Bell,  to  us  of  the  Clarke 
schools.  My  case,  being  a  peculiar  one,  was  brought  under 
his  notice.  After  observing  me  attentively  for  a  time,  he 
solved  the  problem.  I  talked  while  taking  in  breath  as  well 
as  while  it  was  leaving  my  lungs.  And  I  was  not  at  all 
conscious  of  doing  this  and  did  it  in  such  a  way  that  it  was 
not  easily  discoverable  by  others.  I  had  been  doing  it 
ever  since  I  became  deaf,  and  it  was  the  chief  cause  of  my 
hurried,  inarticulate  speech,  and  the  tired  feeling  that  I 
always  had  after  talking  five  minutes  continuously,  and  it 
had  given  rise  to  the  idea  that  I  had  weak  lungs,  as 
it  caused  me  to  be  very  short-breathed.  I  was  imme 
diately  set  at  practicing  full  and  deep  inspirations,  and 
drilled  in  the  habit  of  talking  and  reading  only  when  the 
breath  was  leaving  the  lungs.  At  first  this  was  most  diffi 
cult  to  me  to  do,  but  I  persevered,  and  it  was  the  last  great 
difficulty  I  had  to  overcome.  I  afterwards  followed  Pro 
fessor  Bell  to  Boston,  whither  he  went  to  take  private 
pupils,  and  received  great  benefit  from  his  system  of  teach 
ing.  He  taught  me  modulation  and  inflection,  with  other 
things  that  I  needed  to  know.  I  afterwards,  for  some 
months,  was  in  Mystic,  Conn.,  where  I  had  lessons  from 
Zerah  C.  Whipple,  now  dead,  who  also  had  a  system  of  his 
own.  But  I  went  to  him  principally  to  be  in  the  country, 
on  account  of  failing  health,  and  for  practice  in  lip-reading, 
more  than  for  lessons  in  articulation;  so  while  there  I  prac 
ticed  what  I  had  already  learned  rather  than  gained  any 
thing  new.  I  thought  his  system  was  specially  adapted  to 
be  used  in  teaching  lip-reading  to  those  who,  like  myself, 
had  not  time  to  spend  over  a  more  elaborate  preparation 
for  practice.  My  efforts  at  learning  to  know  what  others 
said  from  the  motion  of  their  lips  was  not  so  successful, 


xvi  Biography 

like  my  attempt  at  learning  how  to  speak  naturally,  because 
it  required  the  giving  up  a  good  deal  of  time  to  practice, 
each  day,  for  years.  I  could  not  do  this  and  at  the  same 
time  pursue  my  literary  work  to  advantage.  The  effort  I 
made  to  learn  to  speak  while  working  incessantly  to  keep 
up  with  numerous  literary  engagements,  seriously  impaired 
my  health,  so  that  the  study  and  practice  of  lip-reading 
was  more  than  I  could  compass  at  that  time,  situated  as  I 
was.  I  have  no  doubt  that,  had  I  been  able  to  give  it  my 
time  and  thoughts,  I  might  today  converse  readily,  without 
the  aid  of  pencil  and  paper,  so  tiresome  to  my  friends.  As 
it  is,  I  am  but  half  reclaimed  from  the  disabilities  of  deaf- 
dumbness.  But  when  I  remember  what  additional  happiness 
it  has  brought  into  my  life  to  be  able  to  speak  freely  and 
naturally,  I  can  estimate  what  it  would  be  to  read  with 
ease  the  speech  of  others  upon  their  lips,  and  I  would 
gladly  take  up  the  study  and  practice  of  lip-reading  again 
were  I  so  situated  as  to  make  it  a  success. 

HOWAED   GLYNDON. 


At  the  age  of  nineteen,  having  already  devoted  herself  to 
writing  many  poems,  which  later  were  published,  Miss  Eed- 
den  turned  her  attention  to  editorial  work  on  a  religious 
paper  in  St.  Louis,  and  contributed  'poems  and  miscellaneous 
articles  to  the  St.  Louis  Bepublican,  concealing  her  iden 
tity  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Howard  Glyndon."  Pos 
sessing  an  intensely  patriotic  nature,  embued  with  the  sense 
of  right  for  the  Union  cause,  her  articles  during  the  Civil 
War  were  vigorous  and  inspiring.  Her  criticism  of  the 
attitude  of  certain  local  authorities  toward  the  Government 
caused  an  investigation  to  be  made  as  to  the  name  of  the 
writer.  Sarcastic  stories  ridiculing  a  "school  girl"  interfer 
ing  with  politics  did  not  dampen  her  ardor,  but  rather 
tended  to  fire  her  enthusiasm  and  called  the  attention  of 
the  public  to  her  ability  as  a  writer  and  a  patriot.  Soon 
afterwards  she  was  sent  to  Washington,  D.  C.,  as  the  corre 
spondent  of  the  Eepublican,  and  her  articles  and  war  poems 
were  later  published  by  Messrs.  Hurd  &  Houghton  of 
Boston.  She  also  composed  the  words  of  a  song — the  fact 
that  she  had  lost  her  sense  of  hearing  accentuated  her  feel 
ing  of  rhythm,  and  it  was  that  which  made  her  so  gifted 
in  expression  of  poetical  lines — "Belle  Missouri,"  dedicated 
to  the  volunteers  from  her  State,  which  was  a  reply  to 
"Maryland,  My  Maryland."  It  achieved  wide  popularity, 
and  was  adopted  as  the  war  song  of  Missouri,  serving  to 
arouse  the  dormant  spirit  of  the  Unionists. 


Biography  xvii 

During  her  stay  in  Washington,  friendships  were  formed 
with  such  leaders  as  President  Lincoln,  General  Garneld, 
General  Grant,  and  statesmen  of  that  period.  It  was  her 
unusual  opportunity  to  accompany  General  Grant  to  the 
front  lines  of  the  Union  army — Civil  War  days  women  were 
seldomed  privileged  to  go  to  the  front — and  the  impression 
she  carried  home  of  the  soldiers  was  engraven  deep  in  her 
heart  and  memory.  While  living  in  the  capital,  Miss  Redden 
compiled  her  interesting  book,  "Notable  Men  of  the  House  of 
Representatives."  It  contains  clever  sketches  and  brilliant 
bits  of  description  showing  her  gift  to  appreciate  human 
mature  and  depict  character. 

In  February,  1865,  Laura  Redden  sailed  for  Europe,  where 
she  remained  nearly  four  years,  mastering  the  French,  Ger 
man,  Italian  and  Spanish  languages,  and  writing  for  the 
New  York  Times,  New  York  Sun  and  the  St.  Louis  Repub 
lican,  and  contributing  to  leading  magazines.  Part  of  her 
stay  in  Italy  was  de.voted  to  collecting  material  for  the 
United  States  Agricultural  Department  on  the  orange  and 
silkworm  culture,  which  was  used  in  the  final  report  of  the 
Bureau  of  Agriculture. 

A  frail  constitution  did  not  prevent  her  from  writing 
extensively,  and  her  diary  is  filled  with  the  personal  im 
pressions  she  had  of  the  art  galleries,  of  the  literary  lights 
she  met,  and  of  the  beauty  of  nature  as  she  viewed  it  in 
her  travels. 

While  in  France  she  visited  the  court  of  the  Empress 
Eugenie,  and  enjoyed  the  hospitality  and  companionship  of 
prominent  men  and  women  of  Paris.  Returning  to  New 
York,  she  continued  her  newspaper  work,  and  added  her 
name  to  the  list  of  brilliant  writers  for  Harper's,  Putman's, 
Galaxy,  and  The  Silent  Worker.  The  Evening  Mail  and 
the  Tribune  were  filled  with  her  stories,  and  in  leisure  mo 
ments  poems  were  voiced  in  exquisite  tenderness.  Intro 
spective  by  nature,  living  in  a  hushed  world,  where  no  evil 
remarks  were  heard,  frank  in  spirit,  a  real  womanly  woman, 
Laura  Redden  gave  to  the  public  gems  of  poetic  art — bits 
of  nature  verse  showing  a  keen  appreciation  of  one  who 
loves  the  great  out-of-doors,  tales  of  lovers  filled  with 
emotional  intensity,  lines  overflowing  with  patriotic  fervor, 
and  poems  which  reflect  years  of  study  and  intimate  knowl 
edge  of  the  master  minds.  Her  talent  brought  her  into 
contact  with  men  of  letters,  and  her  sunshiny  disposition 
cemented  friendships. 

When  the  Clark  institution  was  opened  for  the  teaching 
of  speech  and  lip-reading,  in  1870,  Miss  Redden  took  a  two 
years'  course,  and  then  became  a  pupil  of  Professor  Bell  of 
Boston,  the  inventor  of  the  telephone.  ;  * 


xviii  Biography 

While  at  the  Whipple  Home  in  Mystic,  Conn.,  Miss  Bed- 
though  pitched  somewhat  high,  was  refined  in  tone  and 
distinct  in  quality.  There  was  a  certain  hesitancy  in  speech 
which  rather  charmed  than  offended  the  ear.  Her  time  was 
occupied  with  writing,  so  she  never  was  able  to  master  the 
technique  of  lip-reading,  but  she  wrrote  long  articles  for  the 
New  York  Mail,  under  the  title  of  "Silent  Children,"  advo 
cating  the  teaching  of  speech  in  all  schools  for  the  deaf, 
and  translated  "Memoirs  d'un  Petit  Garcon,"  under  the 
title  of  "A  Little  Boy's  Story,"  and  in  1874  published  her 
renowned  "Sounds  from  the  Secret  Chambers."  Press 
notices  of  her  poetical  works  attracted  interest.  "Sounds 
from  the  Secret  Chambers"  is  in  a  word  a  book  that  makes 
one  feel  as  if  he  knew  the  author,  and  her  readers  can 
hardly  help  calling  themselves  her  friends.  Intensely  sub 
jective,  it  is  while  one  reads  as  if  a  veil  had  been  lifted, 
and  we  are  looking  by  invitation  into  the  sacred  places  of 
the  heart. 


Eedden,  Laura  C. — "Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers,"  by 
"Howard  Glyndon,  16mo.,  pp.  197.  To  all  who  have  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  the  fair  authoress  this  collection  will 
be  more  than  welcome.  Deprived  of  many  of  the  pleasures 
of  society,  her  mind  has  at  last,  like  a  spring  hid  beneath 
the  green  moss,  found  its  natural  outlet  in  the  beautiful 
volume  before  us.  The  first  and  principal  poem,  entitled, 
"Sweet  Bells  Jangled,"  is  life  itself  as  we  often  see  it,  or 
as  we  make  it;  the  story,  truthful  as  it  is,  is  well  told,  and 
indicates  experience,  or  a  quick  perception  which  is  the 
special  peculiarity  of  Miss  Eedden." 

Being  of  a  versatile  mind,  the  Mormon  question  appealed 
to  her,  and  she  devoted  three  years  to  gathering  material 
for  her  book  on  this  important  public  subject;  but  while  it 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  printer  it  mysteriously  disappeared. 

In  1876  Miss  Eedden  and  Edward  W.  Searing,  a  well- 
known  lawyer  of  New  York,  were  married.  The  following 
clipping  tells  of  that  event  and  is  of  interest: 

"The  recent  marriage  at  Mystic,  Conn ,  at  the  residence 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  Lloyd  Haigh,  of  Miss  Laura  Eedden,  the 
poetess,  to  Mr.  Searing,  a  lawyer  of  this  city,  was  a  notable 
event  in  the  literary  world,  worthy  of  further  mention.  The 
day  was  as  lovely  as  the  bride,  and  the  event  passed  off 
beautifully.  Miss  Eedden  wore  a  white  silk  dress,  high  in 
the  neck,  en  traine,  trimmed  with  white  satin  and  real  lace, 
the  gift  of  Mrs.  Dr.  Kibbe  of  Louisiana.  A  beautiful 
wreath  of  orange  blossoms  and  tulle  veil  completed  the 


Biography  xix 

costume.  A  wedding  breakfast  followed  the  ceremony 
Among  the  many  beautiful  presents  received  were  an  exqui 
site  set  of  china  and  silver  spoons  with  monograms  for 
cafe  noir,  and  a  check  for  a  handsome  sum  of  money  from 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Haigh;  an  elaborate  bronze  card  receiver 
from  Mr.  John  Elderkin  of  the  Lotus  Club;  and  also  a 
tortoise-shell  fan,  some  very  fine  lace  and  exquisite  paint 
ing  on  satin  from  Mrs.  Fanny  Bartlett  d'Ovedio,  formerly 
of  this  city.  This  lady  was  the  heroine  of  'The  Diamond 
Wedding/  and  is  the  widow  of  Senor  d'Ovedio,  and  now 
resides  in  Cuba  on  her  estates.  Mr.  John  Greenleaf  Whit- 
tier  and  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor  sent  autographed  copies  of 
their  works.  Mr.  Whittier  intended  to  be  present  at  the 
wedding,  but  illness  prevented.  Letters  and  telegrams  of 
congratulations  were  received  from  all  parts  of  the  country, 
among  others  from  Joaquin  Miller,  Mr.  Whitelaw  Eeid,  Mrs. 
Mary  Tales  Peet,  Mr.  Strauss,  late  agent  of  the  Associated 
Press  of  Havana;  Mrs.  Lillie  Devereaux  Blake,  Dr.  William 
Hayes  Ward  of  the  Independent;  Mr.  Auguste  Boullier, 
member  of  the  French  National  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and 
the  author  of  numerous  historical  and  poetical  works; 
Mrs.  'Jennie  June'  Croly,  Colonel  J.  F.  Dwight  of  Stock- 
bridge,  Mass.;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  H.  Story,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Edward  Moran,  Dr.  Mary  H.  Gilbert,  E.  Delafield  Smith, 
Mr.  Nelson  Sizer,  Mr.  H.  S.  Drayton  of  the  Phrenological 
Journal,  and  Mr.  Gordon  Grant,  Vice-Consul  at  Geneva. 

"The  wedding  tour  embraced  New  Haven,  Mount  Holyoke, 
Northampton,  Montreal,  Quebec,  Prince  Edward's  Island, 
Halifax  and  Boston.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Searing  are  now  at 
their  country  home  in  Sherwood,  New  York." 

One  daughter  blessed  the  union — Elsa  Searing,  wife  of 
John  L.  McGinn.  Like  her  mother,  she  possesses  a  taste 
for  books,  a  love  of  nature,  and  a  patriotic  spirit,  which 
proved  its  integrity  during  the  World  War,  when  she 
devoted  every  moment  of  her  time  to  war  service,  and  after 
wards  concerned  herself  with  civic  interests,  being  the  first 
woman  elected  as  a  member  of  the  City  Board  of  Trustees 
of  San  Mateo,  as  well  as  devoting  three  years'  time  to  the 
presidency  of  the  Women's  Club,  and  being  a  member  of 
many  boards  of  directors  of  charitable  organizations. 

ELSA. 

Oh,  the  world  is  a-brim  with  the  sweetness  of  Summer; 

The  skies  are  deep  blue,  and  the  earth  is  dark  green; 
But  the  soft  little  cheek  of  this  precious  newcomer 

Is  dearer  to  me  than  all  roses,  I  ween! 


xx  Biography 

This  soft  little  cheek,  laid  to  mine,  so  long  lonely, 
Makes  the  world  seem  bright  as  if  all  were  new-made; 

For  this  shut  human  flower  is  for  me  and  me  only, 
To  bring  it  to  beauty,  to  watch  lest  it  fade. 

Lie  close,  little  head,  to  the  heart  that  you  lighten! 

Cling  fast,  little  hand,  to  the  hand  that  you  made  strong! 
Intertwine,  little  life,  with  the  life  that  you  brighten, 

For  the  love  of  you  brings  back  the  secret  of  song! 

Oh,  my  baby!  my  baby!  there's  much  you  must  teach  me; 

There  are  problems  that  only  your  dimples  can  solve; 
And  'tis  only  through  you  that  my  best  good  can  reach  me, 

As  it  is  around  you  that  my  best  thoughts  revolve! 

Ah,  dear  little  feet!    I  must  sit  down  below  you, 
And  try  to  unlearn  all  my  trouble  and  pain, 

For  what  is  there  left  of  my  lire  fit  to  show  you? 
My  child,  thou  hast  made  me  turn  childlike  again. 

In  1886,  Mrs.  Searing  came  to  California  with  the  Con 
vention  of  Instructors  of  the  Deaf,  and,  finding  the  environ 
ment  of  Santa  Cruz  particularly  adapted  to  the  needs  of 
her  failing  health,  decided  to  make  that  her  permanent 
home.  '  'Hills  of  Santa  Cruz"  was  inspired  while  living  in 
that  picturesque  seaside  resort.  The  poem  has  been  de 
scribed  by  Whittier  as:  "Fine  in  conception  and  felicitous 
in  execution,  it  will  cling  to  the  Santa  Cruz  Mountain 
Eange  forever." 

Friendships  with  literary  men  and  women  of  the  West 
began  which  gave  joy  to  life  in  its  twilight  hours.  When 
her  daughter  removed  from  Alaska,  where  Mrs.  Searing 
had  spent  some  time  with  her,  to  San  Mateo,  she  found 
days  spent  in  the  lovely  garden  happy  ones;  but  serious 
inroads  were  made  upon  her  health,  and  the  fragile  flower 
of  womanhood,  administered  to  with  unusual  tenderness  by 
an  affectionate  daughter,  no  longer  cared  for  other  com 
panionship.  She  talked  little,  and  ceased  to  write.  Her 
last  lines  were  prophetic  and  sad,  and  at  the  same  time 
reflected  faith  sublime: 

O  hush  thee,  hush  thee,  heart; 

Lie  still  within  my  lonely  breast; 
For  soon  shall  come  a  time  when  thou 

And  I  shall  be  laid   well  at  rest. 
There  must  be  fairer  fields  for  us 

Beyond  the  midsts  of  human  ken." 
(Her  last  lines,  written  April  5,  1908.) 


Biography  xxi 

Two  grandchildren,  Laura  Edith  and  John  W.  McGinn, 
are  left  a  heritage  of  rich  treasure  in  memory  of  their 
grandmother,  a  poetess  who  gave  much  to  the  world,  and  to 
them  in  particular  a  legacy  of  refinement  and  artistic  appre 
ciation  of  the  beauty  of  life. 

TO  HOWAED   GLYNDON. 

Dear  soul  that  dost  within  a  silence  dwell, 

Unreached  by  outward  music,  one  who  knows 
How  sweet  with  bitter  on  this  silence  grows, 

Would  ask  if  thou  hast  found  it  ill  or  well? 
If  it  enfold  thee  with  so  calm  a  spell, 

Thou  wouldst  not  care  to  break  it,  and  foreclose 
The  inner  harmony  that   soulward  flows, 

For  sound  of  ruder  voices  that  repel, 
And  with  their  jar  unclasp  the  links  of  Thought? 

Oh,  well  for  thee  if  fancies  winged  and  swift 
Bear  thee  above  the  shadow  which  had  crossed 
Thine  outer  life.     Fate's  hand    in  mind  hath  wrought 

So  few  bright   threads.     I  envy  thee  this  gift 

Which  stars  the  solitude  where   sound  is  lost. 

(1879.) 

Written  by  M.  A.  H.  Cramer  to  Howard  Glyndon  and 
published  in  her  book,  "Verses,"  1899. 


PART  I. 
SOUNDS  FROM  SECRET  CHAMBERS. 

"Sweet  bells  jangled  and  out  of  tune." 


Photograph  of  Author   and   her   daughter,  Elsa  S.  McGinn 


PREFACE. 

In  letting  these  Sounds  go  abroad  I  hesitate  whether  to 
accompany  them  by  that  name  which,  adopted  in  a  moment 
of  girlish  caprice,  was  fated  to  be  one  by  which  the  world 
should  know  me  best,  or  by  that  which  is  rightfully  mine. 

I  remember  that  the  one  will  represent  me  to  some,  and 
the  other  to  still  others,  while  a  few  know  me  by  both. 

The  two  names  are  typical  of  my  double  existence  as  a 
woman  and  an  author. 

In  my  double  character  I  give  my  rhymes  into  the  hands 
of — may  I  hope  that  I  shall  find  the  terms  synonymous? — 
friends  and  readers. 

LAUEA   C.   EEDDEN 
("Howard  Glyndon"). 

Boston,  Mass.,  1873. 


SOUNDS  FROM  SECRET  CHAMBERS, 

THE   SLEEPING   BEAUTY. 

She  sleeps ;  and  roses  round  her  clamber, 
With  bright  red  mouths  and  arms  of  amber, 

Feeling  for  that  red  mouth  of  hers — 
The  sunshine  breathless  bends  above  her, 
Toys  with  ringlets  like  a  lover, 

Thrilling  and  trembling  if  she  stirs. 

The  veil  she  wears  is  woven  lightly, 

And  thro'  its  folds  her  face  burns  brightly, 

Like  to  a  lamp  thro'  some  soft  screen — 
Her  breath  just  thrills  the  air  around  her, 
And  makes  the  silentness  prof ounder ; — 

E'en  so  she  sleeps,  unheard,  unseen. 

Who  comes  with  footsteps  soft  to  wake  her? 
What  sweet,  what  smiling  slumber-breaker 

Trips  o'er  the  leaves  in  these  green  ways? 
Whose  strange  face  is  the  daylight  sunning? 
What  white   hand  holds   with  tender   cunning 

The  clue  to  this  enchanted  maze? 

It  is  her  prince,  her  lord,  her  stranger, 
Who  comes  to  her  through  doom  and  danger, 
.  As  ancient  prophecies  foretold : 
The  Fair,  the  Fortunate,  the  Fated, 
He  comes,  he  creeps,  with  breath  abated, 
And  holds  the  key  of  magic  gold. 

The  door  springs  open,  he  beholds  her 
Where  on  bright  blush  of  rose  enfolds  her 


28  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Of  rosy  bloom,  of  gleaming  rays; 
He  falters  at  the  door,  then  blushing- 
He  enters,  voice  and  footfall  hushing 

In  prayerful  passionate  amaze. 

A  moment  pale  as  death  he  lingers — 
Then  lifts  the  veil  with  trembling  fingers, 

And  swoons  her  lidded  eyes  to  see ! 
He  stoops,  but  ere  his  kiss  is  taken 
She  thrills,  she  trembles  to  awaken, — 

Her  eyes  are  opened  quietly ! 

She  starts  not,  for  she  knows  the  comer; — 
In  silent  dreams  through  many  a  Summer 

She  hath  beheld  that  shape  of  bliss; 
She  holds  her  arms  out,  blushing  sweetly, 
Surrendering  her  soul  completely 

To  take  his  greeting,  kiss  by  kiss. 

0  joy!    the  words  of  love  are  spoken, 
Th'  enchantment  of  the  plase  is  broken, 

Gleam  after  gleam  the  glory  breaks, 
The  palace  gleams  thro'  every  chamber, 
The  birds  sing  loud,  the  roses  clamber, 

And  all  Love's  sleeping  world  awakes! 


PRELIBATORY. 

Gladdest  of  all  is  he  who  gives, 

Discovering  that  his  gift  hath  grace, 

For  passeth  straight  into  his  heart 
The  joy  of  the  receiver's  face. 

If  I  could  lift  to  longing  lips 

A  beaker  filled  with  drink  divine, 

Or  sing  to  yearning  ears  a  song 

That  should  be  welcomer  than  wine, — 


Prelibatory  29 

I  should  not  blush  to  lift  my  voice 

And  bid  each  passer  to  my  side ; 
Nor,  since  I  come  unheralded, 

Shrink  back,  lest  favor  be  denied. 

But  I  have  brought  a  little  thing, 

And  I  am  doubtful  of  its  worth, 
And,  at  the  last,  am  half  afraid 

To  show  its  nature  clearly  forth. 

And  if,  despite  my  long  delay, 

I  only  cheat  expectant  eyes, 
And  you  should  give  me  form:l  words, 

Not   glad,   enthusiastic   cries, — 

Ah  !    lay  it  honestly  aside  ; 

And  I  shall  see  my  great  mistake, 
But,  knowing  my  intent  was  sound, 

I  shall  be  patient  for  its  sake ! 

Yet  here  and  there  a  pensive  smile, 

Or,  dearer,  an  impulsive  sigh, 
Shall  pay  me  for  the  slights  of  those 

Who  throw  my  offering  idly  by. 

And  haply,  if  a  tear  should  fall 

Where  some  of  mine  have  dropped  before, 
Then  I  shall  know  cne  heart,  at  least, 

Has  heard  me  knocking  at  the  door. 

But  who  will  rise  to  let  me  in? 

And  shall  I  be  a  welcome  guest? 
A  comrade  and  interpreter, 

When  all  my  errand  is  confest? 

I  turn  the  key,  I  lift  the  lid, 

I  lay  the  casket  on  the  sill, 
And,  wistful,  linger  at  the  door 

To  know  the  tenor  of  your  will. 


30  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 


SWEET  BELLS  JANGLED. 


A  GIRL'S   SUBTERFUGES. 

"Wilt  thou  be  an  ancient  maiden?" 
Say  the  matrons  unto  me ; 

"Wilt  thou  have  no  chubby  children, 
Clinging  fondly  to  thy  knee?" 

"Ruddy  matrons  !    happy  mothers  ! 
What  are  children  unto  me?" 

"Wilt  thou  live  alone  forever?" 
Say  the  matrons  unto  me. 

Light  I  answer :    "Who  is  single 
Should  be  ever  blithe  and  free. 

Sober  matrons  !    thoughtful  mothers  ! 
Liberty  is  sweet  to  me !" 

"Youth  is  scornful  in  the  sunshine," 

Say  the  matrons  unto  me. 
"Drop  thy  kerchief,  boastful  beauty! 

While  thine  eye  is  bright  of  blee, 
Age  is  lurking  in  the  shadow, 

Age  is  creeping  up  to  thee !" 

And  I  answer,  lightly  laughing, 
What  the  matrons  say  to  me : 

"I  am  given  to  Diana, — 

To  the  huntress,  fair  and  free, — 

And  the  lumpy,  lovesick  Venus 
Hath  no  follower  in  me !" 


A  Girl's  Subterfuges  31 

I. 

I  am  nineteen  to  day.     I'm  growing  old. 

I  saw  the  merest  phantom  of  a  wrinkle 

Between  my  brows  this  morning.     Mother  say» 

It  is  because  I  pore  above  my  books 

So  late  of  nights;    and  Mother  does  not  like 

To  have  me  different  from  other  girls, 

Except  that  I  should  show  the  freshest  face, 

The  prettiest  dresses,  and  the  readiest  smile. 

And  ah !  how  shocked  she  would  be,  if  she  knew 

That  I  write  poems  sometimes, — nay,  not  poems, 

But  wretched  verses ;  that  I've  even  dared 

To  publish  some  of  them.    I  signed  them  "Faith," 

And  never  was  so  flurried  in  my  life, 

Nor  so  exultant,  as  when  first  I  saw 

My  rhymes — my  very  own — in  black  and  white 

For  all  the  world  to  read;  and  not  a  soul 

Had  even  the  least  suspicion  they  were  mine ! 

I  hardly  know  what  I  would  like  to  be ; 

But  then  it  is  so  grand  to  be  a  poet! 

If  I  might  be  one  !     "God !  how  Art  is  long !" 

Great  Goethe  says,  and  at  his  words  I  shudder; 

For  I  have  done  no  more  than  play  at  work. 

Can  I  do  more?    Can  I  stand  all  alone? 

I  do  not  know,  and  there  are  none  to  help  me. 

If  Mother  saw  me  musing,  she  would  say 

Something  in  substance  very  much  like  this: 

"Go  to  your  music!"  or,  "Go  take  a  walk! 

I  hate  to  see  you  moping.     It  is  bad 

For  any  girl's  complexion.     Do  you  know 

That  Edward  Mason  marries  Mary  Grey? 

And  she  will  wear  white  satin  and  real  lace ! 

And  you  left  school  a  year  before  she  did, 

And  might  have  had  him."    Yes,  that  is  the  way! 

Leave  school,  get  married  (just  as  well  as  buried!), 

Have  a  fine  house,  and  get  one's  life  crushed  out 

In  caring  for  it.    Dust  on  the  piano — 

And  no  book  opened, — never  time  to  think! 


32  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Then  the  babies  come? — Is  that  wan  woman  there 
The  merry,  pink-cheeked  girl  I  used  to  know? 
She  dies  at  forty  years,  or  thereabouts, 
And  fades  from  memory  as  she  fades  from  sig;ht. 
What  has  she  done  but  drag  herself  through  life? 
And  Mother  wants  that  I  should  be  like  this ! 

II. 

I'm  sick  of  hearing  so  much  about  love ! 

I  can't  take  up  a  magazine  or  journal 

But  'tis  the  same  old  story, — Love!  Lnve  !  Lovo ! 

Whether  in  poem,  prose,  essay,  or  taL> ; 

And  all  my  music's  set  to  silly  word",. 

There's  too  much  harping  on  this  sama  old  String, 

I'm  tired  of  listening  to  it  every  day. 

The  boys  and  girls  can  talk  of  nothing  ehe ; 

And  'tis  the  same  with  grown-up  men  °nd  womrn. 

I  used  to  like  such  stuff  when  I  was  callow, 

But  now  it  palls  upon  me  when  I  think 

There  are  so  many  other  things  to  t  Ik  of, 

So  many  other  things  to  think  about, 

So  many  more  to  pray  for,  do,  and  suffer ! 

And — stupidest  of  all ! — if  any  woman 

Dares  call  a  man  her  friend,  and  treat  him  so, 

Straightway  around  her  rises  a  great  babbling; 

And  all  the  babbling  is  of — Love  !  Love  !  Love  ! 

Now,  Clarence  Dale  has  been  my  friend  a  year. 

We've  read  together,  walked  and  talked  together; 

Both  understanding  that  we  were  but  friends. 

He's  all  the  friend  that  I  have  ever  had. 

(I  have  no  fancy  for  fine  school-girl  frenzies.) 

Older  than  me  he  is,  by  several  years ; 

Wiser  than  me  he  is,  beyond  compare. 

He  has  the  answers  for  my  questions ; 

He  helps  me  solve  my  problems,  lets  me  lean 

Upon  his  strength,  and  does  not  like  me  less 

Because  I  am  unlike  the  other  girls. 

He  smiles — a  little  sadly — when  I  talk 


His  Picture  of  Her  33 

Of  the  grand  things  that  I  would  like  to  do, 
But  says  a  man  should  never  try  to  hinder 
A  woman  in  her  climbing, — rather  help  her. 
Ah,  how  I  bless  and  hcnor  him  for  that ! 
How  proud  I  am  to  have  him  for  my  friend ! 
And  then  to  think  that  they  should  dare  to  talk 
Of  anything  like  Love  'twixt  him  and  me, — 
I  can't  endure  to  think  of  it  a  moment ! 


III. 
HIS  PICTURE  OF  HER. 

She  carries  heaven  wherever  she  goes; 

An  angel  with  hidden  wings, — 
She's  sphered  about  with  a  sweet  repose 

That  touches  surrounding  things. 

You  cannot  look  in  her  bonny  eyes 
But  your  thought  will  warm  and  stir 

With  a  thankful  thrill,  in  its  glad  surprise, 
For  the  beauty  born  with  her. 

She's  the  mate  of  all  that  is  sweet  and  pure,- 
The  birds,  the  stars,  and  the  flowers, — 

Her  touch  is  delight,  and  her  kiss  a  cure, 
In  this  briery  world  of  ours ! 

There's  a  light  that  lieth  upon  her  grace, 

Like  the  sun  on  far  blue  seas ; 
And  her  voice  is  as  tender  as  her  face, 

And  like  the  harp  of  the  breeze ; 

And  tender  as  either  of  the  twain 

Her  shapely  and  supple  hand, 
The  soother  and  sweetener  of  pain. 

And  the  lily  of  rll  the  land! 


34  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

0,  under  her  feet  the  roses  bloom, 
Where  only  were  thorns  of  yore ! 

She's  so  bright  that  the  shadow  finds  no  room 
Where  all  was  so  dark  before ! 

Till  by  Heartsease  sown  in  this  wilderness 

We  reckon  her  years'  increase; 
For  she  knows  the  ways  of  Pleasantness, 

And  finds  the  path  of  Peace ! 

IV. 

Sitting  alone  today,  there  came  to  me 
A  thought  that  vexed  me,  like  a  flitting  shadow 
That  comes  between  us  and  the  sun.     It  was 
"When  Clarence  marries,  what  becomes  of  me?" 
I  shall  not  marry;  but  can  I  expect 
That  he  will  keep  like  singleness  of  soul? 
They  say  fair  faces  wile  men's  hearts  away. 
And  yet  I  cannot  think  of  him  as  married 
Without  a  twinge  of  pain, — I  am  so  selfish ! 

V. 
TRANSFORMATION. 

"But  then  you  take  my  friend  from  me !" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes ; 
The  shy,  awakening  womanhood 

Grown  bolder  from  surprise. 

"Who  finds  a  lover  needs  must  lose 

A  friend,  however  tried!" 
"Choose  you  the  lover  or  the  friend!" 

His  deeper  voice  replied. 

The  shadow  of  some  coming  pain, 

Of  some  mysterious  ill, 
Hung  round  her  young,  uncertain  soul, 

And  made  her  falter  still. 


Transformation  35 

Ah !  sweeter  far  to  droop  and  dream 

Above  a  love  untold 
And  vaguely  guessed,  than  when  we  count 

What  we  may  have  and  hold ! 

But  this  faint,  lingering,  strange  regret 

Her  woman's  heart  construed 
Into  a  longing  for  the  ties 

Of  Friendship's  graver  mood. 

"Ah !  let  me  keep  my  friend,"  she  cried, 

"Whose  gently  guiding  hand 
Subdues  my  griefs  and  plans  my  joys, 

With  such  serene  command !" 

"Mine  is  a  man's  impulse,  and  you 

Are  wiser  in  your  way, 
And  cooler  in  your  blood ;  but  I 

No  medium  course  essay. 

"Our  lives  must  blend,  or  we  must  part, — 

The  fiat  lies  with  you!" 
She  could  not  say,  "Depart  from  me !" 

For  all  that  she  could  do. 

"But  I!     I  give  you  all,"  she  cried; 

"My  life,  my  love,  my  soul; 
The  surety  of  my  happiness 

Goes  into  your  control!" 

An  answering  look,  a  clasping  arm, 

A  passionate  caress, — 
Man's  old  reply  to  woman's  words, 

Nor  yet  believed  the  less ! 

VI. 

He  left  me,  slightly  vexed,  because 
I  made  him  promise  not  to  tell, — 


36  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

At  least  to  wait  till  we  should  see 
If  all  would  work  together  well. 

Because  my  mother  does  not  dream 

That  we  have  thought  of  such  a  thing; 

Not  even  though  she  saw  today 
Upon  my  hand  another  ring. 

It  is  not  what  would  please  her  best, 
And  I  must  try  to  smooth  the  way ; 

And  I  must  have  some  little  time 
To  think  of  fitting  words  to  say. 

VII. 

FOUND. 

Sitting  together  only  yester-even, 
A  hush  fell  on  us  with  the  deepening  gloom ; 
To  me  it  seemed  as  if  the  peace  of  heaven 
Descended  with  the  twilight  in  the  room, 
You  drew  my  head  down  to  your  sheltering  bosom, 
And  kissed  the  brow,  so  stirless  in  its  calm  ; 
And  then  my  passionate  thought  burst  into  blossom 
On  glowing  lips:  "Unworthy  though  I  am, 
Love  me,  Beloved!" 

i 

The  charmed  world  may  lay  her  hand  in  blessing 
Upon  my  young  head's  waves  of  sunny  brown; 
But  I  shall  sigh  for  tenderer  caressing, 
And  Love  must  plait  the  laurels  for  my  crown. 
If  up  the  heights  where  gleams  the  golden  glory 
Of  royal  souls  my  woman's  feet  should  go, 
Think  not  these  lips  could  then  forget  the  story 
Now  gushing  from  my  wild  heart's  overflow: 
Love  me,  Beloved ! 

No,  no  !     If  in  the  clamor  of  glad  voices 
Blending  my  name  with  high,  exultant  song, 


Ave  Caesar  37 

[  missed  the  tone  that  most  my  heart  rejoices. — 
The  very  sweetest  singer  in  the  throng, — 
I  would  not  care  to  listen  any  longer ; 
You  are  all  grace  and  melody  to  me ; 
And,  leaning  on  your  life,  my  life  grows  stronger, 
Your  strength  shall  nerve  me  for  Eternity. 
Love   me,   Beloved ! 

How  tenderly  you  meet  the  mute  appealing 

Of  eyes  that  ever  seek  to  read  your  own. 

This  clinging  trust — this  wild  excess  of  feeling— 

But,  dearest,  I  have  been  so  long  alone ! 

Henceforth  there  is  no  good  beyond  my  grasping, 

No  splendor  that  my  earth-life  may  not  take; 

The   passionate   heart    which    to    your    own   you're 

clasping 

Is  henceforth  sacred  for  your  princely  sake. 
Love   me,   Beloved ! 

VIII. 

I  have  been  poring  over  some  old  papers ; 

Some  of  my  earliest  writings, — school-girl  things, — 

And  found  this  page,  which  reads  like  prophecy 

In  the  full  light  that  Love  casts  on  today. 

When  I  concluded  to  devote  my  life 

To  writing  poems  and  to  studying  Greek, 

I  burnt  a  copy  of  it, — called  it  callow, — 

And  did  not  know  that  I  had  kept  this  one. 

AVE  CAESAR. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  when  thou  comest,  my  King, 

Seeing  that  thou  wearest  not  thy  crown  abroad, 

Seeing  that  thou  sendest  me  no  token-ring, 

And  that  no  mark  is  on  thy  forehead  set? 

Ah !    I  shall  know  thee  as  my  heart  knows  God ! 

And  I  affirm  that  thou  art  all  for  me, 

As  I  thy  queen  and  subject  am  for  thee, 


38  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

If  that  thou  be  not  wrongly  captive  led 

By  any  other  woman's  luring  smile, 

Nor  lay  on  any  other  heart  thy  head; 

If  thou  canst  live  thy  life  apart  awhile, 

Waiting  to  have  it  perfected  by  mine; 

If  so  be  thou  canst  bear  this  long,  sharp  cark 

Which  eats  my  heart  as  it  consumeth  thine, 

While  I  go  groping  vainly  in  the  dark, 

Hoping  to  touch  thy  hand  and  find  thee  out, 

And  by  thy  love  be  robed  and  wrapped  about, 

And  crying  like  a  newly  orphaned  child 

Because  I  do  not  grasp  thee  anywhere. 

Or  like  to  one  who  is  in  sleep  beguiled; 

For  ah !  in  dreams  what  will  not  fancy  dare  ? 

Be  true  to  me,  as  to  thyself  thou'rt  true ! 

Be  true  to  me  as  I  am  true  to  thee ! 

Keep  sacred  all  thy  tender  ways  for  me; 

Keep  the  caresses  of  thine  eyes  for  me, 

And  every  thrilling  hand-clasp,  till  I  come, 

Like  one  who  staggers  wearied  toward  home, 

To  hold  my  unkissed  face  up  unto  thine, 

To  feel  thy  strong  life  passing  into  mine, 

Making  me  likewise  strong,  until  my  feet, 

Like  to  my  heart's  responsive,  steady  beat, 

Keep  firm  and  even  step  beside  thine  own; 

And  we  walk  on  together  through  the  world — 

Never,  ah !  never  more  to  be  alone — 

With  faces  like  unto  the  face  of  him 

Whose  life  was  haunted  by  a  dream  of  treasure, 

Which  he  went  searching  for  throughout  the  earth, 

Holding  all  lighter  things  of  little  worth, 

Until  at  last  he  found  it,  one  glad  day, 

Which  it  made  sweeter  than  all  flowers  of  May, 

And  took  it  up,  and  went  his  way  with  pleasure ! 


An  Idyl  of  the  Early  Spring 

IX. 
AN  IDYL  OF  THE  EARLY  SPRING. 

Oh!  clear  and  calm  and  open  as 

The  forehead  of  a  sleeping  child, 
And  blue  and  cool  and  far  away, 

The  April  heaven  o'er  me  smiled ! 
The  violets  from  their  low,  green  homes 

Peeped  up,  and  patterned  by  its  hue ; 
"We  will  be  like  the  sky,"  they  said, 

"Forever  pure,  forever  blue!" 

Dropped  through  the  branches  of  the  beech,- 

Unleaved  and  sear  from  wintry  stress, 

The  fervid  kisses  of  the  sun 

Recalled  the  earth  to  blessedness. 
And,  startled  from  her  long,  white  trance, 

Abashed  and  scant'ly  clad  she  lay; 
Meanwhile  the  robin's  glancing  breast 

Gave  life  and  gladness  to  the  day. 

And  where  the  creeping  wintergreen 

Its  fruit  in  coral  broidery  weaves, 
I  found  the  sky  arbutus  hid 

Beneath  the  crisp  and  russet  leaves. 
The  fair  patrician  of  the  woods! 

Their  daintiest  treasure, — pink  and  white! 
As  balmy  as  the  myrtle  flower 

That  sweetens  the  Italian  night. 

The  vagrant  brightness  of  the  days 

Had  coaxed  a  freshness  to  the  moss; 
And  many  a  brown  and  naked  stretch 

By  maple  blooms  was  blown  across. 
Like  swarms  of  tiny  winged  things, 

Clinging  to  branches  bare  and  high, 
Their  tender  scarlet  clusters  shone 

Against  the  blueness  of  the  sky. 


40  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

There  were  mysterious  bleams  of  white 

Among  the  hollows,  lying  low, 
Drooped  over  by  dusk  evergreens, 

But  I  could  laugh  at  April  snow. 
I  knew  its  fostering  mantle  hid 

The  darlings  of  the  coming  May, 
When  constant  Nature  should  fulfil 

Her  premonitions  of  today. 

And  sudden,  silver  sweet,  I  heard 

A  bluebird  singing  in  the  hedge ; 
Near  by  a  venturous  wood-flower  sunned 

Its  whiteness  on  a  mossy  ledge. 
Therefore  I  could  no  longer  doubt, — 

So  much  was  plain  to  eye  and  ear, — 
And,  thrilled  with  sudden  joy,  I  cried, 

"The  Spring,  the  pleasant  Spring,  is  here !" 

"But  such  a  brightness  never  shone 

On  hill  and  dale  and  stream  before, — 
Or  else  my  eyes  were  strangely  dull, 

And  could  not  see  so  well  of  yore !" 
That  rogue,  the  bluebird,  as  I  spoke, 

Proclaimed  my  secret  far  and  near; 
Out  of  his  merry  heart  he  sang : 

"Be  glad !     For  Love  and  Spring  are  here !" 

X. 

This  used  to  be  a  problem  unto  me : 
Can  woman's  life  hold  Art  and  Love  together? 
And  now  I  know  it  can !     Not  one  heart  only, 
But  one  soul  and  one  mind  are  shared  between  us ! 

XI. 

I  stood  at  early  dawn  beside  my  window, 

So  glad!  so  glad!     His  ring  was  on  my  hand,— 


A  Girl's  After-Singing  41 

I  could  not  sleep  for  the  joy  of  feeling  it, — 

I  leant  out  to  the  dim  and  dewy  day, 

And  heard  the  first  faint  sounds  of  waking  birds; 

And  saw  the  hills  in  shadow,  and  the  deeps— 

The  blue,  unsounded  deeps — of  restful  skies 

Unsunned  above  me.     Then  to  me  a  voice— 

A  timid  voice  afraid  of  its  own  self, 

A  voice  that  sang  the  sorrow  of  a  heart 

That  could  not  choose  but  suffer — floated  up. 

I  caught  the  song,  but  could  not  see  the  singer. 


XII. 
A  GIRL'S  AFTER-SINGING. 

When  I  was  a  wee  white  maiden, 

I  was  my  mother's  delight; 
She  plaited  my  yellow  tresses, 

And  she  cuddled  me  close  at  night. 
But  once  I  woke  in  her  clasping, 

And  felt  that  her  arms  were  chill; 
And  they  took  me  aw^ay  from  my  mother, 
Because  she  lay  so  still. 

The  buttercups  shine  in  the  meadow, 

And  her  grave  is  wet  with  dew; 
A  sparrow  is  chirping  near  it, 
Alas!  what  shall  I  do? 

Love  came,  and  sought  me,  and  found  me ! 

He  entreated  me  passing  fair ; 
It  was  for  him  that  I  braided 

The  jessamine  into  my  hair. 
He  pelted  me  once  with  a  rosebud; 

When  I  stooped  to  where  it  lay, 
He  departed,  and  only  left  me 

The  flower  that  he  flung  away. 
The  bloom  is  all  over  the  orchard, 
While  I  sit  here  and  sew; 


42  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

So  sorry  for  sweet  Love's  going, 
Alas !  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pale  Christ !     I'll  put  thy  betrayal 

'Twixt  me  and  my  miseries  twain ; 
Thou  wert  forsaken, — and  I  am 

A  motherless  creature  in  pain ! 
Dead  God !    I  will  take  thy  pity, 

And  wrap  it  about  my  life ; 
O,  let  me  be  thy  little  one, 

Since  I'll  be  no  man's  wife ! 


XIII. 

And  it  is  well  that  I  had  wit 
To  counsel  silence  and  delay; 

And  he  has  owned  that  I  was  right, 
And  things  have  proved  it  so  today. 

It  is  his  father's  wish  that  he 

Should  spend  abroad  at  least  a  year, 

Before  he  settles  gravely  down 
Into  a  well-worn  office-chair. 

His  cousin — he  is  Clarence  too — 
(I  always  quiver  at  the  name; 

And  never  can  remember  that 

So  many  others  have  the  same!)  — 

His  cousin  makes  the  tour  with  him; 

But  then  he  says  that  we  shall  go 
When  we  are  married;  then  he  kissed 

Away  the  sudden  overflow 

Of  rebel  tears  that  would  not  wait 
Till  I  should  find  myself  alone; 

I  thinking  that  he  would  be  gone 
Till  next  year's  clematis  was  blown ! 


Benediction  43 

I  know  that  all  his  friends  would  think 

He  would  be  wiser  to  go  free ; 
And  if  the  thing  were  known,  he  says 

'Twould  make  a  tedious  time  for  me. 

He  will  not  have  me  set  apart 

Like  pictures  placarded  as  "Sold"; 

He  is  not  jealous  of  the  state 

My  unclaimed  maidenhood  can  hold. 

And,  guessing  some  of  her  designs, 
I  sadly  fear  my  mother's  frown, 

Since  Robert  Graeme  has  fancied  me, — 
For  he's  the  richest  man  in  town. 

XIV. 
BENEDICTION. 

Good  by,  good  by,  my  dearest! 

My  bravest  and  my  rarest! 

I  bless  thee  with  a  blessing  meet 

For  all  thy  manly  worth. 
Good  by,  good  by,  my  treasure ! 
My  only  pride  and  pleasure ! 
I  bless  thee  with  the  strength  of  love 

Before  I  send  thee  forth. 

Mine  own!  I  fear  to  bless  thee, 
I  hardly  dare  caress  thee, 
Because  I  love  thee  with  a  love 

That  overgrows  my  life; 
And  as  the  time  gets  longer 
Its  tender  throbs  grow  stronger : 
My  maiden  troth  but  waits  to  be 

The  fondness  of  the  wife. 

Alas!  alas!  my  dearest, 

The  look  of  pain  thou  wearest! 


44  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

The  kisses  thou  dost  bend  to  give 

Are  parting  one  today! 
Thy  sheltering  arms  are  round  me, 
But  the  cruel  pain  hath  found  me. 
What  shall  I  do  with  all  this  love 

When  thou  are  gone  away? 

Ah,  well!     One  poor  endeavor 
Shall  nerve  me  while  we  sever; 
I  will  not  fret  my  hero's  heart 

With  piteous  sobs  and  tears. 
I  send  thee  forth,  my  dearest, 
My  truest  and  my  rarest, 
And  yield  thee  to  the  keep  of  Him 

Who  blessed  our  happier  years. 

Once  more  good  by !  and  bless  thee ! 
My  faltering  lips  caress  thee. 
When  shall  I  feel  thy  hand  again 

Go  kindly  o'er  my  hair? 
Let  the  dear  arms  that  fold  me 
One  last  sweet  moment  hold  me ; 
In  life  or  death  our  love  shall  be 

No  weaker  for  the  wear ! 

XV. 

Gone  for  a  year  and  a  day ! 
I  am  like  a  bird  that  guards  an  empty  nest, 
And  flutters  in  and  out,  and  cannot  rest, — 
Gone  for  a  year  and  a  day ! 

XVI. 
DRIFTING  APART. 

Out  of  sight  of  the  heated  land, 

Over  the  breezy  sea; 
Into  the  reach  of  the  solemn  mist, 

Quietly  drifted  we. 


Drifting  Apart  45 

The  sky  was  blue  as  a  baby's  eye 

When  it  falleth  apart  in  sleep, 
And  soft  as  the  touch  of  its  wandering  hand. 

The  swell  of  the  peaceful  deep. 

Hovered  all  day  in  our  sluggish  wake 

The  wonderful  petrel's  wing — 
Following,  following,  ever  afar, 

Like  the  love  of  a  human  thing. 

The  day  crept  out  at  the  purple  west, 

Dowered  with  glories  rare; 
Never  a  sight  and  never  a  sound 

To  startle  the  dreamy  air. 

The  mist  behind  and  the  mist  before, 

But  light  in  the  purple  west, 
Until  we  wearied  to  turn  aside 

And  drift  to  its  haunted  rest. 

But  the  mist  was  behind;  and  the  mist  before 

Rose  up  like  a  changeless  fate; 
And  we  turned  our  faces  toward  the  dark, 

And  drearily  said,  "Too  late !" 

So,  with  foreheads  fronting  the  far-off  south, 

We  drifted  into  the  mist, 
Turning  away  from  the  glorious  west's 

Purple  and  amethyst. 

For  the  sea  and  the  sky  met  everywhere, 

Like  the  strength  of  an  evil  hate, 
And  a  thunder-cloud  came  out  of  the  west, 

And  guarded  the  sunset  gate. 

Thou  art  in  the  royal,  radiant  land 

That  stretcheth  across  the  sea, 
And  the  drifting  hours  of  each  weary  day 

Take  me  further  from  thee ! 


46  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

XVII. 
HALF  AWAKE. 

Sleep  ravished  me  from  pain,  and  laid  a  hand 
Cool,  quiet,  and  heavy  on  my  smarting  eyelids ! 

My  soul  fled  from  the  clamors  of  the  land, 
Nor  heard  the  distant  portals  close  behind  it. 

When  I  awoke,  the  brightness  of  the  day 

Had  slipped  from  off  the  green  eurth's  tranquil 
visage ; 

And  in  my  darkened  room  I  freshened  lay, 

And  Ease  had  wrapped  me  in  its  welcome  mantle 

Befringed  with  cheerful  thoughts,  and  fancies  sweet 
That  it  had  gathered  in  the  realm  of  visions, 

Whilst  I  therein  had  walked  with  soundless  feet 
Over  pale  asphodels  and  poppies  crimson. 

Sometimes  a  lone  bird  in  its  darkened  nest 
Makes  broken  twittering  before^the  dawning. 

Perhaps  a  leaf,  wind-stirred,  has  brushed  its  breast, 
But  its  faint  chirps  are  for  its  absent  comrade. 

Thuswise  my  heart  lay  half  awake  in  me, 
Before  the  mist  of  dreams  had  faded  wholly, 

And,  stirred  by  half -reminders,  groped  for  thee, 
With  drowsy  calls  and  murmurous  cries  unworded  ! 

XVIII. 
A  LOVE-LETTER. 

All  the  day  was  dark  and  weary,  freighted  down 

with  shadows  dreary. 
Other  shadows  kept  the  sunlight  from  the  threshold 

of  my  heart; 


A  Love-Letter  47 

Failure  in  its  circle  held  me ;  by  its  mighty  magic 

spelled  me. 
Ere    one    hurt    had    ceased    to    rankle,    some    new 

prickle  made  me  start. 

"Letters!"  and  I,  wholly  broken,  turned  in  hope 
lessness  unspoken : 

"Doubtless,  other  stripes  to  smite  me — Lord!  my 
soul  is  sore  enough !" 

Then  I  forced  my  hand  to  take  them,  but  I  scanned, 
ere  I  would  break  them, 

All  the  seals, — for  I  was  growing  cowardly  through 
long  rebuff. 

Till  my  spirit-broken  seeming  was  enlightened  by 

the  gleaming 

Of  a  dear  familiar  writing,  by  a  dearer  hand  devised. 
When  the  arms  that  ache  to  hold  us  only  may  in 

dreams  enfold  us, 
What  a  blessing  lies  in  letters  then  I  wholly  realized ! 

0  my  talisman  in  sadness !    0  my  pledge  of  coming 

gladness ! 
0  my  letter!   tempest-drifted   over   briny   billowed 

seas! 
For  the  sender's  sake  I  bless  you,  for  the  sender's 

sake  I  press  you, 
To  my  trial-chastened  bosom, — be  its  comforter  for 

these ! 

Ah !  I  know  whose  letter  this  is !  there's  embalmed 
freight  of  kisses, — 

Not  the  weapon  that  I  dreaded  in  your  travel- 
battered  sheath. 

You  will  feed  my  incompleteness,  with  your  hived 
board  of  sweetness, 

When  I  peel  away  the  cover  and  pluck  out  the  fruit 
beneath ! 


48  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Yet  my  eyes  with  tears  are  filling, — my  awakened 

pulse  is  thrilling 

To  some  far-off  spirit  signal ;  and  I  shiver,  unaware, 
As  the  wavelets  of  the  river  to  the  zephyr's  kisses 

quiver ; 
Is  my  darling  thinking  of  me  in  the  distance,  over 

there  ? 


XIX. 

Trouble  011  trouble !    When  he  went  away 

It  seemed  as  if  my  darkest  hours  began. 

My  life  since  then  has  been  much  like  a  day 

Bright  at  the  dawning, — very  early  clouded, — 

I  sometimes  think  the  clouds  will  never  lift ! 

First :   father  failed  and  we  lost  all  we  had ; 

And  he  was  old  and  could  not  stand  the  blow, 

And  never  tried  to  lift  his  head  again 

After  our  home  was  sold  and  we  came  here. 

I  never  wore  a  black  dress  in  my  life 

Till  I  got  this  one,  and  it  seems  so  strange 

That  it  reminds  me  every  day  of  father ! 

I  have  no  time  to  think  about  myself 

Except  of  nights ;  and  then  I  cannot  sleep 

Because  of  all  my  sore  perplexity. 

I  must  do  all  I  can  for  mother  now ; 

She  can  do  nothing  for  herself  at  all; 

But  sits  and  rocks  and  moans  and  sighs  all  day, 

Or  holds  my  little  sister  in  her  arms. 

And  I  am  glad  that  I  must  think  for  them; 

For  had  I  time  to  sit  with  folded  hands, 

I  think  I  should  go  crazy  with  the  strain 

Of  all  this  waiting ! 

XX. 

How  long  is  it  since  any  letter  came? 

Now  that  I  think,  'tis  full  three  months  today. 


A  Love-Letter  49 

I  cannot  hear  a  word  of  him  by  chance, 
His  father's  house  is  closed, — they  are  away. 

XXI. 

The  first,  glad  day  of  summer  saw  our  parting; 

Our  hopes  were  vague  our  words  were  very  few. 

I   murmured — from   your   passionate   hold   upstart 
ing— 

"I'll  wait  for  you !" 

Ah,  I  was  brave,  and  life  was  all  before  me — 

My  love  should  make  it  beautiful  and  true  I 

I  said, — when  passionate,  parting  pains  came  o'er 
me — 

"There  is  so  much  to  do ! 

Come  home !  dearest,  come  home ! 

The  summer  waned  and  anguish  fell  upon  me, 
Such  heavy  loss  as  wears  the  strength  away! 
And  for  a  time  its  greatness  seemed  to  stun  me ; 

And  so  I  lay 

Weak  and  bewildered,  with  one  wish  forever 
Haunting  my  nights  and  darkening  my  days : 
That  I  might  fall  upon  your  breast,  ah,  never 

My  head  therefrom  to  raise ! 
Come  home  !  dearest,  come  home  ! 

A  homesick  child,  lost  in  the  dreary  gloaming, — 

Such  lone  estate  is  haply  like  to  mine. 

My  eyes  are  weary  waiting  for  your  coming; 

My  sun  is  slow  to  shine ! 

Do  you  remember,  dear,  that  charmed  season 
When  your  strong  arm  upheld  my  faltering  feet? 
When  life  was  set  to  rhyme, — unchilled  by  Reason — 

And  O !  so  blissful,  sweet  ? 
Come  home !  dearest,  come  home ! 

The  red-leaved  glories  of  the  ripening  Autumn, 
Sun  diamonds  flashing  on  a  dimpling  sea, 


50  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

These  pleased  me  once :  these  now  I  cast  no  thought 
on, — 

You  are  away  from  me ! 
And  I  am  very  weary  of  this  sorrow — 
Where  are  you?     O  my  best  beloved  friend! 
And  must  I  ask  tomorrow  and  tomorrow, — 

And  what  shall  be  the  end? 
Come  home !  dearest,  come  home ! 

I  know  too  well,  unless  some  cheering  token 
Comes  o'er  the  sea.     I  am  not  less  than  brave; 
But  want  and  doubt  and  toil,  uncheered,  unbroken, 

Lead  swiftly  to  the  grave. 
Yet  you  are  dearer  far  to  me  than  heaven; 
And  while  you  live,  I  feel  I  cannot  die. 
Pray  the  dear  God  will  smooth  what  is  uneven 

And  bring  you  by  and  by! 
Come  home !  dearest,  come  home ! 

I  live  my  life  as  you  would  have  me  live  it 
If  you  were  here  and  earth  were  glorified; 
For  you  will  turn  again,  I  do  believe  it, 

And  seek  my  side. 
When  you  come  home  you'll  find  me  worthier  lov- 

ing,— 

Pain  and  endeavor  keep  us  pure  and  true,-— 
And  O,  remember  in  your  farthest  roving, 

I  wait  for  you! 
Come  home !  dearest,  come  home ! 


XXII. 

NO  LETTERS. 

I  say  at  morn,  ''I  shall  have  one  today"; 

I  say  at  night,  "I  shall  have  one  tomorrow''; 
But  day  and  night  go  creeping  slow  away, 

And  leave  me  with  my  sorrow. 


No  Letters  51 

And  is  he  sick?  or  is  he  dead,  or  changed; 

Or  haply,  has  he  learned  to  love  another? 
If  I  could  know  him  careless  or  estranged, 

My  pride,  my  love  might  smother. 

Last  night,  indeed,  I  dreamed  a  letter  came. 

Ah!  welcomer  than  any  first  May  blossom! 
And  then  I  heard  my  mother  call  my  name, 

And  hid  it  in  my  bosom. 

And,  cheated,  woke,  and  heard  the  night  wind  rave, 
And  hid  my  wet  eyes  in  my  lonely  pillow ; 

And  dreamed  again,  and  saw  a  nameless  grave, 
Half  hidden  by  a  willow ! 


XXIII. 

Oddly  enough,  that  which  I  care  for  least 

Of  all  our  trials,  mother  thinks  the  hardest. 

True,  we  are  very  poor;  and  now  we  live 

Away  from  town  in  such  a  tiny  house ! 

At  first  it  seemed  like  living  in  a  trunk. 

It  is  the  merest  shell,  with  rooms  like  closets, 

And  narrow  hall-way  and  still  narrower  stairs; 

And  such  low  ceilings !    But  'tis  fresh  and  clean, 

And  almost  pretty;  and  there  is  a  garden. 

My  sister  Kathie  races  round  and  round  it, 

And  says  it  is  a  garden  for  a  doll! 

But  we  are  quiet,  and  that  pleases  me ; 

And  I  am  glad  to  work  about  the  house, 

And  save  our  scanty  store  in  many  ways, 

And  make  it  go  as  far  as  well  I  can. 

I  think  this  no  great  hardship.    I  could  lead 

In  full  contentment  such  an  humble  life, 

With  love  to  sweeten  it.    But  then  my  mother 

Is  never  done  with  talking  of  past  days. 

And  the  few  friends  who  still  come  in  to  see  us 

Have  such  blank  faces,  when  their  kind  regrets 


52  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Are  all  cut  short  at  seeing  that  I  take  things 
In  the  most  natural  manner  in  the  world ! 

XXIV. 

NOT  FOR  SALE. 

Come  in  from  the  desolate  darkness, 

Disconsolate  heart  of  mine! 
Come  in  from  thy  homeless  wandering, 

For  a  royal  estate  is  thine ! 
Here  is  naught  but  a  ring  and  a  letter — 

The  key  and  the  talisman — 
To  open  the  gates  of  that  Eden  land, 

The  fairest  under  the  sun. 
'Tis  only  the  old,  old  story: 

I  am  beloved,  of  all! 
He  turns  from  the  roses,  and  stoops  to  take 

The  violet  nearest  the  wall. 
The  princeliest  heart  and  the  proudest 

Is  lonely  for  want  of  mine, 
Though  queenlier  brows  may  darken 

When  he  pledges  me  over  the  wine. 
So,  heart,  come  in,  thou  truant! 

For  we  have  a  cause  to  try. 
Wilt  thou  go  to  this  lordly  master — 

This  wooer  who  bids  so  high? 
He  offers  us  gold  and  diamonds ; 

He  offers  us  houses  and  land; 
And  all  for  a  pledge  of  thy  constancy, 

And  a  bond  of  this  poor  little  hand ! 
Thou  art  weary  and  very  lonely, 

0  desolate  pilgrim  heart ! 
Thou  art  tired  of  living  within  thyself, 

From  love  and  pleasure  apart ; 
Thou'lt  be  safely  and  warmly  nested, 

Though  the  wintry  winds  should  blow ; 
So  spring  to  the  arms  of  a  faithful  knight, — 

A  lover,  who  loves  thee  so ! 


Not  for  Sale  53 

Alas !  there  cometh  a  shadow 

Between  me  and  the  light — 
A  dear,  kind  face  that  for  weary  months 

Hath  never  gladdened  my  sight! 
How  could  I  forget  that  these  faithless  lips 

Are  sealed  with  a  sacred  kiss? 
How  dare  I  to  dream  of  another  love, 

Whose  heart  hath  been  pressed  to  his? 
Dear  soul!  though  a  wall  as  high  as  heaven 

Should  rise  'twixt  thee  and  me, 
Though  'tween  the  hearts  that  fondly  year^ 

Should  flow  a  boundless  sea, 
Still  would  I  keep  a  stainless  troth, 

And  a  free,  unfettered  hand, 
A  loyal  faith  and  a  constant  love 

For  my  lover,  of  all  the  land! 
So  my  heart  stood  up  with  a  grievous  cry, 

Saying,  "I  cannot  go !" 
I  may  wander  houseless  and  homeless, 

But  thou  canst  not  cheat  me  so ! 
Ah,  dear !     It  is  weary  wandering, 

For  the  heart  that  has  no  home ! 
Ah,  dear!    It  is  weary  waiting 

For  the  feet  that  never  come ! 
But  I  see  not  the  gleam  of  my  wooer's  gold, 

Love  maketh  my  eyes  so  dim; 
If  I  cannot  be  fair  for  thee,  mine  own, 

I  will  never  be  fair  for  him ! 

XXV. 

I  have  sent  him  away :  he  comes  back,  and  he  will 
not  be  banished — 

He  refuses  to  go ! 

He  forever  is  near  me  and  round  me,  and  hovering 
about  me, 

And  he  teases  me  so ! 
Does  he  dare  still  to  hope  for  a  "Yes," 
Just  because  I  am  weary 
Of  telling  him  "No"? 


54  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

XXVI. 
MY  TALISMAN. 

You  took  my  hands  in  your  two  dear  hands, — 
0,  but  the  night  was  a  perfect  night, 

A  sort  of  enchanted  festival 

Of  music  and  flowers  and  light ! — 

You  took  my  hand,  and  I  was  content ; 

But  I  did  not  know  what  your  petting  meant 
Till  I  saw  the  ring  on  my  finger. 

But  the  secret  was  out  when  I  saw  my  hand — 
We  never  minded  the  night  at  all, — 

It  was  only  a  little  ring,  you  know, 
But  precious  it  seemed,  for  all: 

So  precious  I've  kissed  it  a  thousand  times, 

And  thought  it  deserved  a  thousand  rhymes, 
And  so  does  your  love  for  me,  love ! 

And  my  hand  ?  Why,  it  seemed  such  a  different  hand  ! 

It  didn't  look  like  my  hand  at  all! 
My  eyes  kept  seeking  it  all  the  time, — 

So  cunning  and  white  and  small! 
'Twas  all  the  work  of  that  wonderful  ring, — 
Twas  a  priceless  and  talismanic  thing. 

Did  I  thank  you  with  eyes  or  with  lips,  love? 

Not  then,  you  know,  for  we  sat  in  the  glare, — 
0,  but  the  night  was  a  perfect  night ! — 

But  I  sat  still  in  a  trustful  calm, 
Wrapped  in  a  deep  delight, 

Nestling  warm  and  close  at  your  side, 

Looking  up  at  you  with  a  pleased  pride, 
And  my  heart  was  as  blithe  as  a  joy-bell. 

I  looked  up  at  you  and  down  at  my  ring, 

And  I  blessed  the  night  in  my  thankful  heart, — 
You  were  so  noble  and  good  and  grand, 


Tidings  55 

And  we  were  no  more  apart ! 
Ah !  how  happy  you  made  me,  love ! 
As  happy  as  any  brooding  dove : 

I  could  doubt  you  no  more  forever ! 

Many  a  night  I've  gone  to  sleep 

Caressing  the  hand  that  wears  your  ring; 

For  'tis  ever  to  me  a  new  delight, — 
A  sacred  and  lovely  thing ! 

'Tis  long  since  I  looked  upon  your  face ; 

I  hunger  and  faint  for  its  tender  grace : 
The  smile  wastes  off  from  my  own,  love! 

''Even  this  too  shall  pass  away!" 

Was  graven  once  on  a  monarch's  ring; 

But  mine  shall  outwear  my  life,  I  know, 
By  my  sick  heart's  fluttering. 

But  all  the  while  that  it  slimmer  grows, 

And  my  cheek  gets  whiter,  that  once  was  rose, 
You  grow  dearer  to  me,  love ! 

Love  shall  endure,  though  the  ring  may  wear ; 

I  wait  while  the  days  and  the  months  go  by; 
Days  and  years  are  the  same  to  me, — 

I  am  yours  until  I  die ! 
If  I  never  look  into  your  eyes  again, — 
If  Prayer  and  Patience  and  Pain  are  vain, — 

They  shall  bury  my  ring  with  me,  love ! 


XXVII. 
TIDINGS. 

And  this  is  why  he  did  not  write ! 

And  this  is  why  he  does  not  come ! 
And  I  have  kept  my  troth-ring  bright, 

And  sat  and  pined  for  him  at  home. 


56  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

And  would  have  waited  fifty  years, 
Or  would  have  died  in  maiden  white; 

And  he  will  bring  his  bride  with  him, 
For  they  have  told  me  so  tonight. 

A  Spanish  girl  with  velvet  eyes 

And  arching  foot  and  supple  nerves; 

Rich  lips  that  utter  sweet  replies, 

And  figure  full  of  maddening  curves! 

What  matter  that  my  heart  is  true, 

Since  lips  and  cheeks  are  worn  and  pale ; 

And  since  my  eyes  are  dimly  blue, 
What  can  my  tenderness  avail? 

But  it  was  weeping  made  them  dim, 
And  I  will  sit  and  weep  no  more; 
That  ever  I  should  weep  for  him! — 
Ah !  there's  my  mother  at  the  door ! 

XXVIII. 

Ah,  cruel!    cruel!    cruel! 

I  cannot  lift  my  heart  from  out  this  slough 

Of  dead,  dank  hopelessness.     The  whip  and  spur 

Of  kindling  pride  avail  not.    0  great  God ! 

Canst  thou  let  such  things  happen?     Canst  thou  let 

One  human  trust  another,  as  I  did  him, 

And  in  the  midst  of  trusting  be  betrayed? 

Last  night  I  saw  him  in  my  dreams ; 
So  pale  my  heart  was  almost  broken; 
I  read  within  his  eyes  the  thought 
His  sad,  sad  mouth  had  left  unspoken : 
"I  love  you!" 

In  my  sleep  I  said, 
"And  left  me !"  laughing  bitterly ; 
And  suddenly  the  phantom  turned 


My  House  Upon  the  Sand  57 

And  hid  its  pleading  face  from  me. 
But  still  around  me,  in  my  sleep, 
"I  love  you !"  seemed  to  stir  the  air ; 
To  which  I — laughing  bitterly — 
Made  answer  from  my  hard  despair : 
"Ah  God !    That  I  had  never  known 
Such  love  as  yours  has  proved  to  me !" 

XXIX. 

My  mother  cut  me  to  the  heart  today, 
By  saying  that  I  had  it  in  my  hand 
To  give  back  to  herself  and  Little  Sister 
All  the  advantages  that  they  had  lost; 
And  that  I  would  not ! 

XXX. 

MY  HOUSE  UPON  THE  SAND. 

Because  the  heavens  were  blue  above, 

Because  the  ocean  was  so  fair, 
In  its  far-off  immensity 

I  built  my  mansion  there !  • 

"But  know  you  not,"  a  seer  said, 

"In  storms  those  placid  waves  may  rise, — 

That  cruel,  treacherous,  shining  sea 
May  break  its  smooth  disguise?" 

"No!  no!"  my  trustful  answer  ran: 
"This  sheltered  spot  it  cannot  reach; 

Its  waves  will  all  their  fury  spend 
Upon  the  lower  beach." 

And  so  I  built,  and  shaped,  and  planned, 
Until  my  house  stood  fair  to  view ; 

Long  time  my  willing  heart  found  work 
For  willing  hands  to  do. 


58  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

It  Avas  so  dear, — so  fair !  so  fair ! 

That  little  house  upon  the  sand, — 
It  had  not  pleased  me  half  so  well, 

Built  on  the  solid  land ! 

For  here  the  white  birds  made  cheir  nests 
And  here  the  sunshine  stayed  all  day, 

To  burnish  up  the  plumy  crests 
Of  infant  waves  at  play. 

"Not  yet,  not  yet  its  lord  has  come ! 

I  deck  it  for  him  while  I  wait ; 
My  heart  keeps  guard  before  the  door 

In  honor  of  his  state. 

"And  every  time  the  sun  goes  down, 
His  feet  are  one  day  nearer  home; 

I  count  my  rosary  of  hours 
In  patience  till  he  come. 

"And  when  his  feet  the  threshold  cross, 
And  when  my  hand  is  in  his  hand, 

There  will  not  be  a  happier  house 
In  all  this  happy  land ! 

"And  I  shall  lead  him  through  its  halls, 
And  show  him  all  its  pretty  rooms, 

And  nestle  slyly  to  his  side, 
Amid  the  twilight  glooms!" 

The  wind !    The  wind !    The  cruel  wind, — 
And  ah !  the  hungry-mouthed  wave ! 

From  out  the  wreck,  one  floating  thing 
I  could  not  even  save ! 

I  stand  alone  upon  the  sand, 
Bereft  of  all  my  heart's  delight ; 

And  look  around  and  note  the  work 
Of  one  black,  bitter  night ! 


Tempted  59 

My  house !  the  fruitage  of  my  care, — 
The  labor  of  my  heart  and  hands, — 

Cemented  with  my  life's  best  things, 
And — built  upon  the  sands! 

Gone — lost !  for  ever,  ever  lost ! 

And  I  am  standing  here  alone. 
Of  all  the  riches  of  my  house, 

There  is  not  left  a  stone ! 

And  he,  for  whom  the  house  was  built, 
Is  turned  away — and  will  not  come. 

The  day  is  changed,  and  he  is  changed, 
And  I  am  pale  and  dumb ! 

I  have  no  home  in  all  the  land, 

No  heart  on  which  to  lay  my  head. 

Such  rest  as  now  I  crave  is  found 
In  one  low,  narrow  bed! 


XXXI. 

TEMPTED. 

They  will  not  let  me  rest, — I  am  so  weary! — 
My  mother  talks  from  morning  until  night 
About  this  marriage  she  would  have  me  make; 
And  he  is  kinder  now  than  e'er  before ; 
And   sends   me   books    and   flowers;    and   will   not 

slacken 

His  coming  for  my  sharp,  capricious  moods ; 
And  says  I  am  more  beautiful  than  ever, 
And  talks  of  how  he  loves  me,  while  my  heart 
Is  torn  'twixt  love  and  pride  and  jealousy, — 
I  wish  that  I  were  dead  and  all  were  ended! 


60  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

XXXII. 

Well,  let  me  look  the  truth  full  in  the  face ! 

I  cannot  part  my  living  from  my  loving, 

No  more  than  I  can  take  from  off  my  finger 

The  ring  he  put  there.    For  I  tried  today, 

And  could  not  do  it.     It  was  just  as  if 

Some  unseen  hand  withheld  me. 

I'll  never  see  or  speak  to  him  again ; 

But  I  have  ceased  to  lie  to  my  own  heart, 

I  love  him !    Let  it  be.    But  then  I  love  him 

As  we  do  love  the  dead  and  out  of  reach ! 

I  cannot  write 

Unless  I  write  my  heart  out !    Not  unless 

I  use  my  tears  for  ink,  my  sighs  for  pens. 

And  who  wants  anything  like  this  sad  song 

That  sang  itself  together  in  my  brain 

Last  night,  while  I  lay  chafing  in  the  dark, 

One  throbbing  mass  of  nerves,  both  eyelids  propped 

So  wide  apart  I  could  not  make  them  shut? 

For,  such  revenges  rebel  Nature  takes, 

When  suddenly  deftly  she  slips  from  out 

The  long,  strait-jacket  we  have  swathed  her  in, 

During  formal  days  when  formal  looks  are  on  us, 

And  makes  reprisals  for  our  tutoring ! 

XXXIII. 
VIOLET  TIME. 

One  morning,  in  the  past  sweet  time, 

The  hand  I  loved  and  trusted  most — 
As  tender  as  an  olden  rhyme, 

That  grieves  for  something  precious  lost— 
Was  sharply  wrested  from  my  own, 

Although  my  truth  was  free  from  stain. 
I  had  not  learned  to  walk  alone ; 

So,  filled  with  wonder  and  with  pain, 
Childlike,  I  turned  me,  but  to  see 


Violet  Time  61 

The  heart  where  late  my  head  reposed 
Would  prove  no  more  a  home  for  me, 

Since  heart  and  arms  were  coldly  closed. 
My  feet  were  young  and  tender  then, 

Not  hardened  for  the  stony  way, — 
They'd  only  trod  upon  the  flowers, 

And  on  the  velvet  grass,  at  play, — 
'Twas  long  before  they  learnt  the  skill 

That  deftly  threads  the  thorniest  road, 
And  finds  a  pleasant  pathway  still 

Where  rasher  feet  have  bleeding  trod. 
Yet,  0,  young  hearts  that  bleed  and  break ! 

Hearts  with  your  first  sweet  hopes  betrayed ! 
For  your  sad  sakes  my  heart  shall  make 

A  shrine,  where  its  first  hopes  are  laid. 
For  your  dear  sakes  my  pride  shall  bow, 

And  reverent  pity  light  my  eye, — 
Ah,  violet  time !  so  faded  now, 

Your  angel  long  since  passed  me  by ! 


XXXIV. 

He  lingers  long  away — so  much  the  better ! 

I'm  like  a  timid  player  perking  for 

A  difficult  part,  in  an  unwonted  dress. 

Then  let  me  have  my  time  to  get  mine  perfect, 

So  that  he  will  not  miss  a  single  shade 

Of  the  composure  that  I  ought  to  learn. 

His  cousin,  talking  near  me  last  night,  said 

Thev  should  not  look  for  him  for  months  to  come. 

It  is  his  health  that  calls  for  longer  stay. 

His  health?     Indeed,  I  cannot  comprehend. 

With  love  and  everything  to  make  him  happy, 

'Twould  be  more  natural  that  he  should  be  well! 

I  caught  no  word  of  his  fair  foreign  wife, — 

Indeed,  I  hardly  ever  hear  his  name, 

Nor  go  where  I  can  hear  it,  since  his  friends 

Are  hardly  mine. 


62  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

XXXV. 
SURMISES. 

His  love  I  measured  by  my  own, — 

Alas !  the  heart  of  man, 
So  swift  to  thrill, — so  swift  to  change, — 

Crowds  years  into  a  span ! 

The  strongest  fires  burn  soonest  out, — 

And  he  could  thus  forget ! 
And  only  pities  me  sometimes, 

Because  I  love  him  yet! 

Ah,  well !  I  fear  'tis  often  so ; 

The  man  will  go  his  way, 
And  count  his  gains  and  freight  his  ships, 

Forgetting  but  today! 

But  woman?    she  must  gather  up 
Her  hopes — those  brittle  things — 

And  all  her  work  is  to  undo 
Her  life  from  where  it  clings ! 

XXXVI. 

We  are  so  very,  very  poor,  indeed ! 

What  will  become  of  us?     Until  I  tried, 

I  thought  it  would  be  easy  to  find  work; 

And  now  I  say,  "God  help  the  struggling  poor !' 

I  never  fully  pitied  them  till  now. 

With  all  I  know,  I  cannot  earn  a  cent! 

I  write  and  write,  and  send  my  work  away, 

And  all  comes  back  to  me  with  brief  regrets, — 

Story  or  poem,  it  is  all  the  same. 

Ah!  I  perceive  that  fingering  of  the  lute 

For  our  pleasure  is  a  different  thing 

From  singing  songs  to  earn  our  daily  bread! 

Poor  mother  cried  herself  to  sleep  last  night. 


Surmises  63 

XXXVII. 

Well  if  I, 

Being  so  unhappy,  have  it  in  my  power 

Out  of  my  misery  to  make  these  others 

In  their  ways  happy;  have  I  any  right 

To  listen  to  my  heart,  whose  full  consent 

I  know  that  I  shall  never,  never  gain? 

Either  way,  my  day  is  clouded.    I'm  so  little  worth, 

What  matter  if  I  give  myself  to  bondage? 

My  life  is  no  good  to  me  any  more, — 

Then  let  it  be  of  some  good  to  others ! 

They  may  make  a  bridge  of  me  and  walk  across  it 

Into  the  kingdom  of  their  hearts'  desire ! 

I  should  be  glad  of  this;  but  I've  forgotten 

How  to  be  glad  of  anything ;  and  I 

Am  far  too  weary;  and  I  only  ask 

That  they  should  leave  me  quiet  with  my  grief, 

When  I  have  promised  everything  they  wish. 

XXXVIII. 

I  took  my  pen  today  and  could  not  write. 

My  grief  has  drained  the  fountain  of  my  thoughts. 

Alas !  of  such  poor  stuff  are  made  no  poets. 

XXXIX. 

It  is  to  be ! 

Last  night  he  followed  me 
Out  into  the  dark  and  dewy  garden  walk ! 

So  still  the  place, 

I,  seeing  not  his  face, 
Caught  every  least  vibration  of  his  talk. 

He  did  not  know 
How  sadly,  long  ago 

My  heart  had  forgotten  to  thrill  to  passionate  words. 
Nor  understand 
That  never  another  hand 


64  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Might  wile  responses  from  its  slackened  chords. 

I,  sitting1  pale, — 

The  darkness  for  my  veil, 
Like  one,  who,  kneeling  at  the  water's  side, 

O'er  the  surge's  roar 

Hears  from  the  further  shore 
Far  words,  borne  faintly  forward  o'er  the  tide, — 

In  silence  drooped, 

Until  his  head  he  stooped 
So  near,  I  felt  his  breath  upon  my  cheek. 

The  old,  old  pain 

Woke  suddenly  up  again ; 
It  was  for  memory's  sake — not  his— I  did  not  spuik! 

And  while  he  bent  above  me,  all  at  once 

The  moon  came  forth  and  lighted  up  the  place ; 

And  ere  I  was  aware,  his  face  became 

An  awful  revelation  unto  me, 

Because  it  showed  me  how  his  love  was  set 

Upon  me — like  the  tides  of  some  sad  sea, 

That  spend  themselves  upon  a  cold  gray  shore, 

And  spend  themselves  in  vain,  and  still  return; 

And  still  return  in  vain,  and  will  not  cease 

From  circling  about  the  sullen  shore ! 

And  in  the  simile  I  read  our  fates : 

He  was  the  sad  sea — I  the  sadder  shore ! 

But  when  he  yearned  towards  me — when  he  moved 

To  draw  me  to  his  bosom,  all  my  heart 

Within  me  sickened ;  and  .1  lifted  up 

A  faltering  hand — my  shield  'twixt  him  and  me — • 

And  laid  it  on  his  shoulder,  while  I  spake, 

And  while  I  trembled  very  grievously: 

"I  have  no  heart  to  give  you.     If  I  had, 

I  do  believe  it  would  be  yours  of  right, 

Seeing  how  you  regard  me.     Pity  me, 

Because  I  cannot  love  you;  and  forgive— 

Because  I  am  the  source  of  all  your  pain !" 


Interposition  65 

"You  have  no  love  to  give  me;    May  I  ask 

If  you  have  given  it  to  another  man?" 

From  out  the  deeps  of  my  despair  I  moaned, 

"Be  merciful,  and  do  not  question  me !" 

"Only  once  more !"  he  urged ;  and  I  could  see 

His  face  was  ashen,  as  of  one  who  staggers, 

Death-sick,  beneath  a  weight  he  cannot  carry; 

"And  0,  forgive  me!     Does  he  live,  this  man? 

Or  is  he  dead?"    And  then  his  searching  eyes 

Devoured  my  face  in  silence. 

"He  is  dead,"- 

I  would  have  said — "to  me" ;  but  a  strong  pang 

And  then  I  felt  his  kisses  on  my  hands. 

And  he  was  saying :  "Oh,  my  heart's  delight ! 

Let  me  but  love  and  tend  you  in  your  need ! 

I  will  be  very  patient — will  not  ask 

That  you  shall  love  me,  till  I  teach  you  how !" 

He  held  my  hand  so  that  the  moonlight  fell 

Full  on  the  ring  that  Clarence  kissed  and  placed 

Upon  my  finger,  kissing  both  again. 

"May  I  wear  this,"  I  said,  "beside  your  ring? 

I  cannot  take  it  off." 

He  turned  his  face  away  before  he  spoke ; 

Then  said :    "Do  as  you  will, — 

But  let  me  love  you !" 

XL. 
INTERPOSITION. 

A  bride !     But  not  a  wife  !  there  came 

A  message  flashing  o'er  the  wires : 
"If  you  would  save  your  house  from  shame, 

Be  here  before  the  month  expires." 

He  had  but  time  to  kiss  my  lips 

And  strain  me  strongly  to  his  breast, 

And  leave  me  mistress  of  the  place 
Which  late  I  entered  as  a  guest. 


66  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

And  he  must  travel  night  and  day, 

Nor  slacken  till  he  numbers  ten; 
And  it  will  be  a  month,  at  least, 

Before  he  comes  to  me  again ! 

XLI. 

A  week  had  passed  since  he  whose  name  I  bore 
Had  left  me.    I  was  glad  at  need  to  have 
A  fair  excuse  for  shutting  out  the  world ; 
And  doubly  thankful  for  the  short  reprieve 
His  absence  gave  me,  ere  my  strange,  new  life 
Began  in  earnest.     On  this  sunny  morn 
I  felt  my  heart  drawn  towards  the  little  house 
Where  yet  my  mother  lingered,  though  preparing 
To  give  it  up  and  come  to  live  with  me. 

There  was  a  bench  beneath  a  cherry-tree, 
Which  now  I  knew  must  be  one  cloud  of  bloom. 
I  thought  that  I  should  like  to  sit  an  hour 
Upon  that  bench,  and  let  the  sunshine  warm  me. 

And  so  I  left  my  grand  new  home  and  went, 

And  kissed  my  mother ;  while  our  Kathie  clung 

About  me,  in  her  small  impetuous  way, 

And  followed  me  into  the  budding  garden, 

To  show  me  where  the  blackbird  had  his  nest, 

And  presently  forgot  me  in  her  play. 

So  then  I  sat  and  watched  the  bustling  bees; 

And  with  the  sounds  and  scents  there  fell  upon  me 

A  half  contentment ;  and  I  put  my  hands 

Together  quietly,  and  softly  thought 

Of  all  the  many  things  that  I  would  do 

In  expiation  of  my  one  great  lack, — 

The  lack  of  love  for  him  who  loved  me  well ! 

"But  I  will  be  so  kind,  so  kind !"  I  said, 

"And  never  cross  or  vex  him  any  way; 

And  try  and  make  him  happy ;  and  who  knows 

But  God  will  smile  upon  my  sacrifice, 


Interposition  67 

And  let  me  find  my  happiness  at  last 

In  giving  up  my  will  to  other  wills !" 

And  then  the  tears  that  spring,  but  do  not  fall, 

Stood  gently  in  my  eyes.     I  think  it  was 

My  heart's  protest  in  favor  of  itself, 

Or  some  unheeded  impulse  of  self  pity. 

But  through  these  tears  I  saw  a  sudden  shadow ; 

And  lifting  up  my  eyes — there  stood  before  me 

The  same  pale  Clarence  of  my  warning  dream: 

Only,  his  pallor  did  not  plead,  but  threaten ! 

I  saw  the  coming  tempest  in  his  eye, 

But  could  not  comprehend.     "How  came  you  here?" 

I  no  word  more  could  say  from  out  my  stupor. 

"It  is  your  fault,"  he  said;  "I  did  not  know —    . 

Until  I  came.     I  went  to  Locust  Grove ; 

Found  it  deserted;  but  a  neighboring  gossip 

Spoke   of   your   father's   death,   and   thought   your 

mother 

Was  living  here.     I  did  not  catch  your  name 
Until  I  saw  her ;  then  she  told  me  all. 
(As  she  would  tell  it  to  some  chance  acquaintance!) 
And  bade  me  come  and  see  you  in  the  garden!" 
"And  you!"  I  said,  as  one  who  talks  in  dreams, 
"How  did  you  dare  to  come?   Why  have  you  come?" 
And  as  I  spoke  I  put  my  hand  before  me, 
The  back  towards  him,  and  the  two  rings  gleaming 
Upon  the  wedding  finger,  with  no  thought 
Of  anything  except  to  keep  him  off. 
He  saw  his  ring  upon  my  hand,  and  started 
Fiercely — as  if  to  strike  me.     "How  dare  you 
To   wear  your   troth-ring  when  your  troth   is   bro 
ken?"" 

"If  it  was  broken,  'twas  not  first  by  me" ; 

I  answered  swiftly;  "and  of  all  the  world 

You  are  the  last  one  who  should  dare  to  taunt  me; 

Because,  in  spite  of  all  that  you  have  done 

To  turn  my  heart  against  you,  it  was  weak 

And  spiritless,  and  clung  to  its  old  fealty, 


68  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

When  hope  was  dead  and  love  was  almost  crime, 
And  would  not  let  me  fling  this  ring  away!" 

"In  spite  of  all  that  I  have  done!"  he  cried; 
"What  have  I  done  but  love  you  night  and  day, 
Through  silence  and  long  waiting  and  despair, 
And  ill  reports  and  sickness?     And  you  ask 
Why  I  am  here  ?     I  came  for  love  of  you ! 
What  else  could  bring  me?     0  my  God!  my  God! 
I  can't  believe  it !    Are  you  this  man's  wife  ? 
How  could  you  turn  against  me  without  cause? 
Who  slandered  me?    Why  did  you  cease  to  write? 
When  first  your  letters  did  not  come  I  wrote 
And  wrote  again,  and  would  not  be  rebuffed. 
And  then  in  Naples  I  was  smitten  with  fever, 
And  could  not  write,  since  I  was  ill  for  weeks. 
When  I  was  strong  enough  to  read  my  letters, 
The  first  one  that  I  took  was  from  my  sister; 
And  in  the  midst  of  other  idle  gossip 
I  saw  your  name.     She  wrote  that  Robert  Graeme 
Was  courting  you.     And  I  fell  back  and  read 
No  more  that  day, — and  not  for  many  days ! 
And  just  as  soon  as  I  could  leave  my  bed 
I  turned  straight  homeward";  here  he  clutched  a 

tree. 
"Ah !   better  far  if  I  had  stayed  away !" 

"I  heard  that  you  were  married."     "I !"  he  said ; 
"Ah !  now  I  know  you  never  loved  me  well ! 
Else  you  had  not  believed  it,  save  from  me, — 
It  was  my  cousin  Clarence !" 

And  then  I 

Recalled  to  mind  how  mother  had  come  in 
From  church  one  Sunday  evening,  and  had  told  me 
That  she  had  heard  young  Clarence  Dale  was  mar 
ried, — 

His  bride  a  Spanish  girl,  and  beautiful. 
And  while  she  talked,  a  friend  of  ours  dropped  in, 
And  said  the  same  thing  over ;  and  I  never 


Interposition  69 

Stopped  once  to  think  about  that  other  Clarence ! 
(They  called  him  oftenest  Clarence  L.,  to  make 
Ditinction  'twixt  him  and  his  senior  cousin.) 
And  I,  made  conscious  by  my  well-kept  secret, 
Dared  ask  no  questions;  tacitly  accepting 
The  tidings  as  they  came,  and  shaping  them 
To  meet  the  strong  forebodings  of  my  heart ! 

Now  I  began  to  see  what  I  had  done, 
And,  suddenly,  resolved  to  know  the  worst, — 
Like  one  who,  driven  toward  a  precipice, 
Which  he  conjectures,  though  he  cannot  see, 
In  sheer  despair  goes  forward  to  the  brink, 
And  parts  the  green  mask  of  the  undergrowth, 
And  looks  straight  into  the  dizzying  ruin 
Which  gapes  to  gulp  him,— 
"And  you  wrote?"  I  cried; 
"I  got  no  letters  after  the  first  month.' 
And  then  I  saw  the  wonder  in  his  eyes, 
While  he  was  saying:    "Why,  I  wrote  and  wrote, 
Unmindful  of  your  silence ;  sending  all 
To  the  address  you  gave  me !"    And  then  I 
Cried  out  at  once,  "But  the  address  was  changed !" 
"You  did  not  write  me  so."    "Indeed,  I  did!" 
"Well,  then,  I  got  no  letter.    I  suppose 
That  mine  have  gone  where  all  dead  letters  gu, 
In  our  well-ordered  service  of  the  post ! 
Dead  letters!    Aye!    For  they  are  dead  indeed* 
To  us  they're  doubly  dead.    But  had  you  waited, 
I  might  have  told  you  all  that  there  was  in  them , 
And  we  had  smiled,  saying,  'No  great  harm  is 
done' !" 

Now  when  I  thought  of  all  the  bitter  days 

And  bitterer  nights  those  letters  would  have  saved 

me, 

Though  his  reproach  was  just,  I  could  not  bear  it. 
And  with  no  word  that  could  express  my  pain, 


70  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

I  dropped  my  head  between  my  trembling  hands, 
And  the  great  deeps  of  woe  were  broken  up ! 


XLII. 
AWAKENING. 

There  is  no  hope  for  us  in  all  this  world, 

Nothing  to  do  but  part! 
I  give  up  every  hold  on  life  and  love 

When  I  resign  your  heart ! 

It  is  too  late,  too  sadly  late,  to  meet; 

So  touch  my  hand  and  go ; 
Come  never  near  me  with  those  fatal  eyes 

That  pain  and  thrill  me  so ! 

Come  never  near  me !     'Tis  my  only  plea, — 

Depart !    Leave  me  alone  ! 
Lest  every  worldly  tie  my  spirit  break 

And  claim  you  for  my  own ! 

Away !  away !    I  hold  my  passionate  heart 

Beneath  a  feeble  hand. 
How  love  and  pain  are  wrestling  for  my  life 

You  may  not  understand. 

Why  did  you  come  to  darken  all  my  fate 

With  hopeless,  fond  regret? 
Why  should  the  sunrise  glory  of  my  soul 

So  early  fade  and  set? 

Forgive  me ;  soothe  me  with  a  tender  touch,— 

But  one,  before  we  part. 
I  may  not  even  ask  you,  0  my  friend ! 

To  wear  me  next  your  heart. 


Awakening  71 

I  am  not  quite  so  selfish  in  my  love, 

So  senseless,  so  unjust, 
Forget;  and  be  your  noble  self  again, 

And  true  to  every  trust. 

I  must  not  let  you  love  me,  tenderest  friend ! 

Forget;  be  glad  again! 
I  want  to  give  you  all  the  joy  of  life, 

And  take  the  lonely  pain. 

Too  late  to  meet,  because  one  sad  mistake 

Had  come  between  two  souls ! 
We  may  but  clasp  reluctant  parting  hands 

Across  the  gulf  that  rolls 

Between  our  lives — God!  is  it  kind  or  just? 

But  I  am  mad  with  pain, 
And  all  the  teachings  of  a  prudent  lore 

Fall  dull  upon  my  brain. 

Let  me  lean  on  you  for  a  moment's  strength, 

While  I  accept  this  cup. 
My  life's  one  love !   my  heart  is  broken  now, 

Else  I  could  not  give  you  up ! 


I  am  as  one  who  passes  from  the  heart 

Of  some  great  storm  into  the  silent  dark; 

For  grief  is  not  less  grief  because  it  broods 

In  stillness  o'er  a  fate  which  first  awakened 

But  breathless  writhings  and  despairing  cries. 

I  hardly  know  what  happened  at  the  last. 

He  was  upon  his  knees  beside  me  pleading 

For  love  as  if  for  life.     ''You  are  not  his !" 

I  heard  him  say.     "In  the  face  of  God  and  man 

I  claim  you.    Leave  him !    Let  me  act  for  you. 

Why  should  we  care  for  what  the  world  will  say? 

What  is  the  world  to  us,  if  we  are  right? 

Are  we  not  all  the  world  unto  each  other?" 


72  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

And  I,  'twixt  sobs  and  shivers :    "Go  !    go  !  go  ! 
For  I  should  break  my  mother's  heart  and  his!" 
"Then  you  will  rather  break  your  own  and  mine?" 
"Not  yours  !    not  yours !     Go  and  forget  me, 

Clarence ! 

For  I  deserve  from  you  no  such  thing. 
0,  I  will  pray  to  God  that  this  may  be ;     . 
Even  as  I  asked  Him  once  to  let  you  love  me ! 
Leave  me  alone  to  suffer  for  my  fault. 
Go  and  forget  so  mean  a  thing  as  I !" 

"And  have  you  read  your  heart  and  mine  so  little 

As  not  to  know  one  pain  must  thrill  us  twain, 

One  fate  must  smile  or  darken  over  us? 

In  life  or  death  we  cannot  be  divided, — 

Ore  spirit  moves  us,  one  desire  invades  us. 

I  will  not  touch  you  while  you  bear  his  name, 

So  fear  me  not;  and  for  your  sake — not  his — 

I  give  all  honor  to  this  worthless  bond. 

But  break  it !    See,  my  arms  are  waiting  for  you ! 

One  hour  of  courage,  and  the  worst  is  over ! 

I  dare  not  stay, — I  cannot  trust  myself, — 

I  go  and  wait  until  you  call  me  back. 

O,  shame  me  not  by  any  faltering ! 

Great  God !    to  think  this  man  should  have  my 

right 

At  his  disposal!     Free  yourself  of  him, 
Or  I  shall  kill  him!" 

Then  my  mother's  hands 
I  felt  about  me, — and  I  knew  no  more ! 


Two  Letters  That  Were  Not  Sent  7i 

XLIII. 

TWO   LETTERS   THAT   WERE   NOT   SENT. 
I. 

0  the  long  pain  of  faithful  hearts ! 

By  fate  unconquered,  how  they  yearn! 
If  strong,  they  bear  an  aching  life ; 

If  weak,  they  break,  yet,  breaking,  burn. 

With  ventures  wrecked,  with  love  denied, 
With  pain's  fruition  long  delayed. 

While  o'er  the  waste  of  future  years 
I  glance  and  turn  away  dismayed. 

The  fierce  regret  for  what  is  lost,— 

The  deep,  undying  tenderness ! 
The  hatred  of  unworthy  self, 

With  no  sustaining,  fond  caress ! 

And  all  the  glory  gone  from  life ! 

And  all  the  earth  so  dull  and  cold! 
The  bitter  nights !  the  dismal  days ! 

The  suffering  that  maketh  old! 

But  you  are  mine, — forever  mine ! 
For  soul  will  seek  its  kindred  soul; 

1  send  you  from  me,  but  my  heart 
Will  never  own  my  will's  control. 

I  have  no  fear  of  broken  faith ; 

If  I  have  doubted,  that  is  past; 
I  know  you  noble, — 'tis  the  false 

Who  find  f orgetfulness  at  last ! 

I  am  not  worthy  to  be  loved, 

And  our  eternity  is  sure ! 
My  penance  is  this  lonely  life, 

But  I  am  faithful  to  endure; 


74  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

II. 

Well !  and  the  busy  day  is  done, 

And  I  am  alone  at  last; 
Only  myself  to  please  tonight, — 

But  0,  to  forget  the  past ! 
Because  I  cannot,  I  never  shall  care 

To  know  I  am  fair  again; 
Because  I  cannot,  these  weary  nights 

Have  shrivelled  my  life  with  pain. 

For  my  soul  goes  out  with  a  cry  for  you, 

Trying  to  find  the  way 
Out  of  this  gloom,  where  the  shadows  are, 

Into  the  perfect  day. 
My  soul  goes  out  with  a  cry  for  you : 

"Come  back!  for  I  die  of  loss, 
And  there  is  no  strength  in  my  crippled  life 

To  carry  this  cruel  cross." 

O,  my  soul  is  forever  calling  to  you,— 

Crying  and  calling  in  vain, — 
Weeping  and  wailing  and  calling  to  you, 

Till  living  is  only  pain. 
It  is  harder  than  death  to  feel  and  to  know 

We  must  each  walk  a  different  way, 
And  the  fate  that  is  walling  me  out  of  your  life 

Grows  stronger  from  day  to  day. 

And  often  I  think  I  would  gladly  lie 

Down  in  my  winding-sheet, 
Rather  than  battle  and  struggle  alone, — 

Rather  than  lose  you,  my  sweet ! 
But  I  know  I'm  too  young  and  too  strong  to  die, 

Too  brave  for  a  coward's  part; 
But  what  shall  I  do  with  my  empty  hands? 

And  what  with  my  haunted  heart ; 


The  Meaning  of  a  Sigh.     (His.)  75 

I  know  there  is  work  for  willing  ones, 

And  I  offer  my  sacrifice, — 
Living  henceforth  outside  of  myself, — 

Though  the  penance  may  not  suffice. 
Sometimes  my  name  will  mix  with  the  sounds 

Floating  over  your  busy  life, 
And  I  know  that  my  face  will  haunt  you  then 

One  moment  amid  its  strife. 

But,  love !  my  dearest !  this  hopeless  loss 

Has  smitten  my  soul  to  its  core; 
Naked  and  bleeding  lies  the  life 

So  strongly  rooted  before. 
I  stretch  my  arms  through  the  pitiless  void 

To  find  you,  wherever  you  are; 
And  I  shiver  and  pine  in  this  desolate  waste, 

Since  you  are  forever  afar! 

XLIV. 
THE  MEANING   OF  A  SIGH.      (HIS.) 

My  soul  is  invaded  by  many  thoughts 

Of  thee,  of  thee ! 
Like  the  sweet  white  buds  that  fall  in  spring 

From  the  citron-tree. 

Ah !  if  my  arm  were  under  thy  head, 

On  thy  lips  my  lips, 
What  should  we  care  for  the  cruel  past, 

Its  cheats  and  slips? 

XLV. 
UNTIL  THEN.      (SHE.) 

We  shall  meet  no  more — no  more  — 
In  all  the  pleasant  places  of  the  earth; 
And  yet  thy  seal  is  on  me,  and  thy  foot 
Shall  hardly  keep  from  following  after  mine ! 


76  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

We  shall  meet  no  more, — no  more ! 

But  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night 

Thy  heart  shall  hear  the  calling  of  my  heart, 

And  in  my  sleep  my  face  shall  be  toward  thue. 

We  shall  meet  110  more, — no  more ! 
And  I  shall  only  speak  thy  name  to  God, 
But  in  my  memory  thy  face  shall  wax 
More  beatiful  and  dearer,  year  by  year. 

We  shall  meet  no  more — no  more — 

Till  some  glad  day  I  fall  upon  thy  neck— 

The  world  being  past — and  tell  me,  without  tears, 

How  life  was  but  a  groping  after  thee. 


XLVI. 

Alas !  alas ! 

He  has  come  back, — pale,  travel-worn,  and  haggard; 
For  he  has  hardly  rested  night  or  day, — 
He  stayed  not  one  hour  longer  than  the  needs 
Of  a  vast  business  (wrhose  prosperity 
Hung  on  his  coolness  and  his  skill)  required. 
And  he  was  wild  to  see  me,  and  I  shrank 
From  his  caresses, — would  not  yield  my  lips 
To  his,  was  nearly  frantic  when  his  arms 
Enfolded  me.    And  silence  fell  between  us. 
He  left  me  free ;  and  ,looking  in  his  face, 
I  saw  that  1  had  hurt  him  to  the  quick. 
O  heart  of  me !    my  punishment  is  heavy. 
Make  it  not  heavier  than  my  soul  can  bear; 
Be  generous,  God, — not  just ! 


She's  mine  !    And  yet  she  is  not  mine ! 

I  dare  not  touch  her  with  my  hand. 
My  wife !    and  yet  110  more  to  me 

Than  any  stranger  in  the  land ! 


Alone  With  the  Night  77 

XL  VII. 
ALONE  WITH  THE  NIGHT. 

Ye  shame  me  with  such  beauty,  placid  skies, 
Cloud-broidered  and  thick-set  with  holy  stars ! 

I  turn  away  my  hungry,  tearless  eyes. 

Ah !  how  ye  shame  the  human's  flesh  iy  wars, 
And  spirits  chafing  behind  prison  bars. 

I  dare  not  shake  this  silence  with  vain  cries, 
Nor  brave  thee,  Nature!    in  thy  vestal  worth. 
Shrinking,  disfigured,  guilty  soul,  stand  forth ! 

—If  so  thou  canst  amid  these  sinless  things, — 
Forget  thy  ruined  Paradise  on  earth 

To  list  the  song  God's  first  created  sin^s. 

But  lovely  art  thou  yet,  thou  glad,  green  world ! 

0  winds,  with  music-laden,  odorous  wings, 

1  scarce  dare  weight  ye  with  these  utterings ! 
Thou,  my  crushed  heart — not  altogether  vile 

Since  such  strange  pain  sweeps  o'er  thy  quiver 
ing  strings, 

Since  thus  responsive  to  the  plea  she  brings, 
Thou  meetest  Nature's  messages  half-way— 
Though  all  around  thee  lie  the  shadows  gray, 
Though   sunk   in   night   the   gleam   of   life's   young 

day, 
Canst  thou  not  burst  and  cast  thy  bonds  away? 

XLVIII. 

'Tis  terrible, — the  life  that  we  are  leading, 

And  I  begin  to  fear  him 

He  grows  so  jealous,  moody,  and  suspicious, 
As  if  the  very  heart  were  changed  within  him. 


78  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

LXIX. 
LIVING  APART. 

All  day  I  go  the  round  that  'customed  feet 

Have  shaped  and  hardened  so, 
I  read,  in  brightening  eyes,  how  life  is  sweet 

When  love's  June  roses  blow. 

With  quiet  hands  I  do  my  daily  task, 

And  wonder  at  this  calm; 
And  wonder  if  the  peace  I  dared  to  ask 

Comes  dipped  in  Lethe's  balm. 

Till  some  chance  word,  some  faintest  memory-flash, 

Brings  one  forbidden  face. 
The  past,  the  present, — how  they  war  and  clash ! 

One's  pain,  one's  tender  grace ! 

1  can  keep  down  the  swelling  of  my  tears 

Through  all  the  busy  day; 
But  then  the  bitter  nights ! — to  think  for  years 

I  may  not  put  away. 

This  face,  which,  finding  not,  my  longing  eyes 

Seek  in  each  crowded  street; 
Low  welcomes,  of  which  memories  arise, 

I  spring  no  more  to  greet. 

How  shall  I  live?     It  haunts  me  everywhere, — 

This  face,  — and  yet  "No  more!" 
Is  written  on  the  future,  foul  or  fair, 

And  hope,  not  love,  is  o'er ! 

L. 

I  can  no  longer  bear  it, — I  will  speak 
And  tell  him  all  tonight,  though  he  should 
Kill  me. 


Who  Knows?  79 

LI. 
WHO  KNOWS? 

If  she  had  not  found  him  so   cruelly  cold   and  so 

narrow, 

And  if,  when  she  laid  her  white  cheek  on  his  shoul 
der  and  shivered, 
He  had  not  burst  out  with  a  gibe,  which  went  home 

to  her  heart  like  an  arrow, 
Who  knows  but  from  all  that  came  after  they  had 

been  delivered? 
But  he  knew  that  her  heart  was  not  his,   and  he 

had  a  suspicion 
That  she  meant  to  make  duty  stand  forth  in  the 

place  of  true  loving ; 
And  her  kindness  was  worse  unto  him  than  its  total 

omission, 
Since  he  made  it  avail  him  his  doubts  of  her  fealty 

in  proving. 


I  did  not  dare  to  tell  him  after  all. 

For  the  first  time,  he  cruelly  repulsed  me. 

Default  of  kindness,  my  weak  lips  were  sealed ; 

I  went  unshrived  unto  my  lonely  pillow. 

I  meant  to  tell  him  all,  and  ask  his  counsel, — 

Leave  him  the  right  to  judge  and  sentence  me. 

LII. 

It  is  not  to  be !     I  feel  it  is  not  to  be ! 

I  have  made  a  path,  but  cannot  walk  in  it. 

Nor  will  I  vex  myself  with  longer  trying. 

I  wrong  all  three  by  this  deceitful  silence, 

Will  make  all  three  unhappy  if  I  carry 

The  falsehood  further.    He  will  grow  to  hate  me. 

Worse  could  not  be.     So  I  must  dare  to  leave  him. 


80  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

LIII. 
A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 

Chief  contradiction  of  all  contradictions 

A  woman's  heart ! 
In  the  same  breath  she  saith  ''Cleave  unto. mo!" 

And  then  "Depart !" 

And  when  the  words  are  said  that  send  you  from  her, 

With  what  a  start 
The  poor,  fond  thing  revokes  her  "Nay!"  to  nestle 

Upon  your  heart ! 

LIV. 
REVOCATION. 

Come  back !    come  back !    for  the  light  went  out 

When  thine  eyes  looked  away  from  my  own ! 
Grieved  and  weary,  I  wander  about, 

So  tired  of  being  alone, 
So  faint  and  friendless,  away  from  thy  side, — 

Come,  dearest,  and  take  my  hand; 
Forget  that  its  clasp  was  ever  denied 

To  the  tenderest  one  in  the  land. 

Come  back  !  come  back  !  with  the  spring's  sweet  prime 

With  the  birds  from  over  the  sea; 
For  I  turn  mine  eyes  from  the  sunlit  time 

And  my  ears  from  its  melody. 
For  my  soul,  in  its  need,  cries  out  for  a  day 

Ere  my  heart  fell  away  from  thine, — 
Cries  out  for  the  cup  that  I  pushed  away, 

Spilling  its  golden  wine ! 

Come !  and  thy  look  shall  kindle  again 

The  faded  flush  of  my  cheek,— 
Come !  and  read  in  my  eyes  the  pain 


Revocation  81 

That  my  lips  are  too  proud  to  speak, — 
Come !  for  my  heart  at  thy  mercy  lies, 

Stabbed  with  a  yearning  wild. 
All  for  thee !  and  for  thee  it  cries 

Like  a  poor  little  frightened  child ! 

LV. 

And  having  made  up  my  mind  to  the  worst, 

I  found  my  heart  was  lightened  of  its  load. 

''It  will  be  terrible  for  him  at  first; 

But  he  will  see  the  utter  hopelessness 

Of  any  good  from  such  a  tie  as  ours, — 

Nay  more,  that  I  should  sin  and  he  would  sin 

In  living  together,  seeing  that  I  love 

And  am  beloved  of  another  man. 

I  will  acknowledge  all  my  wickedness — 

For  weakness  is  a  sin  in  such  a  case — 

In  that  I  let  myself  be  overborne 

By  worldly  counsels  and  belied  my  heart. 

I  will  be  patient,  speak  he  e'er  so  harshly — 

For  I  deserve  the  bitterest  rebukes, — 

But  I  will  sin  no  further.     I  will  break 

From  this  unholy  tie  at  any  cost, 

Even  though  he  curse  me  for  it.     Well  I  know 

That  scandal  will  be  busy  with  my  name, 

And  all  my  summer  friends  will  quit  my  side, 

And  my  poor  mother ! — that  hurts  worst  of  all ! 

But  I  must  bear  it,  since  I  do  deserve  it. 

And  I  will  go  away  and  hide  myself, 

And  let  the  world  forget  me.    By  and  by 

We  two  may  come  together,  and  then  life 

Will  just  begin  for  me.     I  cannot  think 

That  this  is  wrong,  because  we  love  each  other; 

Only  'tis  hard  that  three  must  suffer  first, 

The  guiltless  with  the  guilty,  all  because 

Of  my  wrong-doing." 

Thus  I  planned  the  future. 


82  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

LVI. 

My  heart!  why  wilt  thou  be  so  sad6/ 
Have  we  not  had  our  fill  of  sorrow; 

Can  I  not  bribe  thee  to  be  glad, 
Or  think  a  little  of  tomorrow? 

LVII. 
BECAUSE  OF  A  LETTER. 


"Darling !"  he  wrote, — and  then  before  his  eyes 
There  came  a  sweet  and  gracious  woman's  face, 

And  in  his  ears  a  voice  whose  low  replies 
Were  all  denials  one  while  in  the  past. 
But  when  we  love  how  can  resistance  last? 

And  when  we  love  we  will  not  any  more 

Give  heed  to  things  that  moved  us  much  before. 

II. 

So  he  wrote  "Darling,"  and  perhaps  he  kissed 
The  little  word  for  lack  of  kissing  her 

Upon  the  gentle  hand,  which  his  so  missed, 
And  on  the  mouth  that  waited  ripe  for  him, 
And   on   the    eyes,   sweet,   though   with   weeping 
dim, — 

And  no  presage  of  those  other  eyes 

Which  should  the  letter  on  its  way  surprise. 

III. 

Ah,  little  herb,  with  which  Titania's  lids 
By  spiteful  Oberon  were  rubbed  so  well ! 

When  lovers  love,  and  all  the  world  forbids, 
What  wicked  fairy  culls  you  for  their  bane, 
Making  them  blind  to  all  the  world's  disdain, 


One  Moment  83 

Letting  them  see  but  one  another's  faces, 
And  only  those  in  very  crowded  places? 


LVIII. 
OPPORTUNITY. 

And  while  his  soul  was  full  of  hate, 

And  while  his  brow  was  dark  with  wrath, 

He  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  saw 
His  rival  standing  in  his  path. 

And  maddened  at  the  radiant  face, 
And  at  the  calm,  triumphant  air,— 

To  think  the  very  man  she  loved 

Should  dare  to  stand  before  him  there ! 


LIX. 
ONE  MOMENT. 

The  devil  that  hides  in  the  heart  of  every  man 
Leaped  suddenly  out  of  its  hiding-place  in  his. 
And  then,  in  the  breadth  of  a  little  moment's 

span, — 
For  it  takes  no  longer  to  kill  than  it  takes  to 

kiss, — 

The  thing  was  done  that  never  can  be  undone : 
One  was  standing  up  and  the  other  lying  stark ; 
And  a  woman,  sitting  and  musing  in  the  sun, 
For  a  moment  wondered  the  day  should  turn  so 

dark! 


84  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

LX. 
PRODUCED  IN  COURT. 

But  now  I  wonder  if  this  man  who  wrote 
Could  have  foreseen  the  things  that  were  to 
come, 

Would  not  the  heart  within  his  breast  have  smote 

So  sore  upon  him  that  this  faded  note 
Had  never  left  his  hand  beyond  recall, 
Fixing  the  fate  of  three  for  once  and  all? 

Would  he  have  said,  "Ah,  love  so  fair  and  sweet! 
Die  now.     'Tis  better  thou  shouldst  die  than  I. 
'Tis  better  thou  shouldst  die  than  she  should  live 
To  beg  of  death  what  life  no  more  could  give"? 
Would  he  have  tossed  this  letter  in  the  fire, 
And  turned  the  key  on  passionate  desire? 

Or,  standing  up,  have  faced  the  worst  and  said, 

"Through  all  annoys  I  go  to  make  her  mine. 
I'd  rather  she  would  kiss  me,  when  I'm  dead, 
And  plant  pale-hearted  roses  o'er  my  head, 
Than  live  to  pass  me  on  the  other  side. 
Life  is  too  cheap  if  heart's  bread  be  denied !" 

What  is  impossible  to  him  who  loves? 

Nothing  but  this, — to  force  Amen  from  God. 
And  not  the  faith  for  which  the  mountain  moves 
Can  thrust  effect  out  of  its  natural  grooves. 
If  love  could  put  all  life  in  one  strong  kiss, 
It  could  not  cure  one  little  wound  like  his ! 


Unto  This  Last  85 

LXI. 

UNTO  THIS  LAST. 
I. 

Have  I  not  borne 

The  trials  of  an  adverse  fortune  well, 
Giving  no  sound  by  which  strange  eyes  might  tell 

Of  the  sore  heart  within? 

II. 

Have  I  not  seen 

The  hands  that  should  have  helped  me  turned  away, 
Leaving  me,  sole,  to  bear  this  bitter  day 

In  my  own  strength  alone? 

III. 

My  failing  hand 

From  the  sweetest  aims  of  life  had  loosed  its  hold ; 
Peace  left  me  as  I  grasped  her  garment's  fold, 

And  came  not  back  again. 

IV. 

Not  this!    not  this! 

Why  leave  for  me  this  last  drop  in  the  cup, 
So  deathly  that  I  cannot  drink  it  up 

Without  a  quivering  lip  ? 

V. 

God!    God! 

This  proud,  high  heart  is  bare  before  thee  now ! 
Low  in  the  dust  I  lay  my  defiant  brow. 

I  did  not  know  of  this ! 


86  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

VI. 

I'm  conquered  now! 
The  waves  go  over  my  defenseless  head, 
My  vaunted  strength  is  gone,  and  in  its  stead 
Sitteth  a  white  despair. 

VII. 

Life  is  so  dead ! 

And  the  Hereafter,  all  untried  and  new, 
So  tempts  me  now,  that  all  I  want  to  do 

Is  to  hide  myself  and  die. 

VIII. 

Look  on  me,  Thou! 

To  whom  I  turn  a  still  and  fearless  face 
I  have  no  prayer  to  move  thee  in  thy  place, 

But — thou  art  Just! 


LXII. 
OUT  OF  TUNE. 

0,  bear  with  me,  for  I  am  mad! 

I  cannot  look  upon  the  skies, 

I  hate  the  looks  of  friendly  eyes. 

What  awful  things  doth  God  devise, 

In  spite  of  all  our  piteous  cries ! 

I  cannot  tell  the  night  from  day, 

I  know  not  good  apart  from  bad, 

I  know  not  what  is  sad  or  glad, 

Nor  if  a  wish  I  ever  had. 

Forgive  me,  God !   I'm  worse  than  mad ! 

Forgive !     I  know  that  I,  myself, 

Am  the  sole  cause  of  all  my  pain. 

Have  pity  on  my  broken  heart, 

Have  pity  on  my  wretched  brain ! 


A  Later  Mood  87 

It  crisps,  like  deserts  void  of  rain, — 
I  think  I  ne'er  shall  weep  again. 
Forgive  !    Have  pity  on  my  pain  ! 

LXIII. 

There  is  no  sweetening  for  the  lonely  lips 
In  thoughts  of  long  past  kisses;  no  delight 

In  tracing  out  a  face  forever  vanished 
Upon  the  sombre  canvas  of  the  night! 

LXIV. 
A  LATER  MOOD. 

The  sheep  are  sheltered  in  the  fold, 
The  mists  are  marshalled  on  the  hill, 

The  squirrel  watches  from  his  lair, 
And  every  living  thing  is  still; 

The  fields  are  gray  with  Immortelles ! 

The  river,  like  a  sluggish  snake, 

Creeps  o'er  the  brown  and  bristly  plain, 

I  hear  the  swinging  of  the  pines 
Betwixt  the  pauses  of  the  rain 

Down-dripping  on  the  Immortelles ! 

And  think  of  faces,  slimy  cold, 

That  flinch  not  under  falling  tears ; 

Meek-mouthed  and  heavy-lidded,  and 
With  sleek  hair  put  behind  the  ears, 

And  crowned  with  scentless  Immortelles ! 

The  partridge  hath  forgot  her  nest 

Amid  the  stubble  by  the  rill. 
In  vain  the  lances  of  the  frost 

Seek  for  some  tender  thing  to  kill ; 
They  cannot  hurt  the  Immortelles ! 


88  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Sad  empress  of  the  stony  fell ! 

Gray  stoic  of  the  blasted  heath ! 
Dullest  of  flowers  that  ever  bloomed, 

And  yet  triumphant  over  death, 
0  weird  and  winged  Immortelle ! 

Lie  lightly  upon  Nature's  breast, 
And  cover  up  her  altered  face, 

Lest  we  should  shiver  when  we  see 
The  brightness  of  its  vernal  grace 

Grown  grayer  than  th3  Immortelles ! 

The  wind  cries  in  the  reedy  marsh, 

And  wanders,  sobbing,  through  the  dell 

Poor,  broken-hearted  lover,  he 
For  violets  finds  the  Immortelle ! 

The  Immortelle  !     The  Immortelle  ! 

LXV. 
WORN  OUT. 

You  say  that  the  sun  is  shining, 
That  buds  are  upon  the  trees, 

That  you  hear  the  laugh  of  the  waters, 
The  humming  of  early  bees : 
I  am  pleasured  by  none  of  these, — 
I  am  weary ! 

Let  me  alone !     The  silence 
Is  sweeter  than  song  to  me ! 

Dearer  than  Light  is  Darkness 
To  the  eyes  that  loathe  to  see ! 
'Tis  better  to  let  me  be, — 
I  am  weary ! 

I  have  faltered  and  fallen, — 
The  race  was  but  begun; 


Worn  Out  89 

I  am  ashamed,  and  I  murmur, 
"0  that  the  day  were  done !" 
How  can  I  love  the  sun, 
Who  am  weary? 

What  will  do  for  the  flower 

That  is  cut  away  at  the  root? 
If  the  wing  of  the  bird  be  broken, 

What  wonder  the  bird  is  mute? 

0,  peace !  and  no  more  dispute, — 
I  am  weary! 

I  will  give  you  a  token, — 

A  token  by  which  I  know 
When  I  have  forgotten  the  trouble, — 

The  trouble  that  tires  me  so 

That  I  can  no  farther  go, 
Being  weary. 

When  you  shall  come  some  morning 
And  stand  beside  my  bed, 

And  see  the  wonderful  pallor 
That  over  my  face  is  spread, 
Shrink  not.     But  remember  I  said 
I  was  weary. 

Then  shall  you  search  my  features, 

But  a  trace  you  shall  not  see 
Of  all  these  months  of  sadness 

That  have  put  their  mark  on  me; 

Then  know  I  am  free, 
Who  was  weary. 

For  the  Old  must  fall  and  crumble 

Before  we  can  try  the  New ; 
We  must  taste  that  the  False  is  bitter 

Before  we  can  crave  the  True. 

This  done,  there's  no  more  to  do, 
Being  weary. 


90  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Only  to  droop  the  eyelids, 

Only  to  bow  the  head, 
And  to  pass  from  those  who  are  sighing, 

"Alas !  for  our  friend  is  dead !" 

But  remember  how  I  said, 
"I  am  weary!" 


LXVI. 
LAST  JUNE. 

Could  I  help  smiling?     It  was  May. 

I  saw  a  snow-drift  in  the  meadow; 
Last  Spring  was  minded  so  to  play 

At  Winter;  but  there  fell  a  shadow, 
That  was  born  of  gloom  and  sun, 

Upon  the  greenness  at  my  side. 
I  felt  a  shiver  through  me  run, 

And  all  the  gladness  in  me  died. 

Pale  windflowers  trembling  in  the  grass, 

Each  like  an  early  blighted  maiden, 
Provoked  regards  no  more,  alas ! 

Since  woodbines  were  all  honey-laden. 
The  crocus  withered  on  its  stem, — 

"But  Summer  shall  supplant  the  Spring, 
And  tulips  lord  it  over  them " 

Was  that  the  shadow  of  a  wing? 

I  rose  and  crept  across  the  place 

Where  I  could  smell  the  snow  of  flowers , 
Its  flakes  were  blown  about  my  face 

In  sudden  and  delicious  showers. 
A-cold  in  May?     My  very  lips 

Were  chill,  in  spite  of  song  and  shine. 
I  saw  the  shadow's  slow  eclipse 

Creep  up  again :  it  was  not  mine ! 


Last  June  91 

LXVII. 

But  still  I  soothed  myself  in  thought: 

"My  May  is  tarnished;  well,  what  matter? 
The  faces  that  my  fears  have  wrought 

The  blessed  winds  of  June  shall  scatter." 
I  saw  a  red  rose  half  apart ; 

"And  when  her  nun-like  sister  blows!" — 
Alas !  the  anguish  of  my  heart 

Before  I  saw  the  first  white  rose ! 

I  heard  the  robins  in  their  nests; 

I  saw  the  blue  gleam  of  the  river; 
Gruff  humble-bees  in  yellow  vests 

Made  all  the  apple-blossoms  quiver. 
A  broken  lily  in  the  way 

Was  crushed  beneath  my  careless  foot. 
"Thy  hope,"  a  whisper  seemed  to  say, 

"Is  like  a  flower  without  a  root !" 

What  matters  it,  this  June,  that  red 

And  white  rose  buds  have  burst  asunder, 
Since  one  is  sad  and  one  is  dead? 

How  did  my  heart  divine,  I  wonder? 
Ah,  shadows  !  shadows  everywhere  ! 

But  then  his  grave  is  in  the  sun, — 
Only,  when  I  am  crouching  there, 

It  almost  seems  that  I  am  one ! 


LXVIII. 
NEAR  EVENTIDE. 

My  flesh  is  weary;  but  the  way 
Lies  nearer  to  the  vales  of  Rest, 

And  slowly,  slowly  creeps  the  day 
Down  to  the  threshold  of  the  West. 


92  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Dear  Father!    if  Thy  love  should  send 
Some  angel,  full  of  pity  sweet. 

To  nerve  me  for  the  coming-  end, 
He'll  track  me  by  my  bleeding  feet. 

I  think,  0  Father — though  my  sight 
Discern  no  sign  of  help  around, — • 

Thou  wilt  not  hold  my  striving  light, 
Nor  give  me  any  needless  wound. 

Thou  wilt  not  blame  the  trusting  heart 
That  witless,  blindly  reaching  out, 
Nor  blossom  from  its  thorn  could  part, 

When  thorns  were  set  with  flowers  about. 

Thoul't  lead  me  from  this  evening  land, 
And  with  a  morning  crown  my  night, 

What  time  my  victor  soul  shall  stand 
Erect,  transfigured  in  thy  sight ! 


LXIX. 
A  HEART-SOB. 

Only  lay  your  hand  in  blessing 

Kindly  on  my  stricken  head ; 
Kiss  my  weary  eyes  and  forehead 

And  the  lips  to  sorrow  wed. 
So — I  ask  no  more,  sweet  mother ! 

With  my  face  upon  your  breast ; 
If  I  slumber,  do  not  wake  me,— 

I  am  weary  and  would  rest. 

And  I'll  tell  you  where  to  lay  me, 
When  I'm  fallen  sound  asleep, 

That  my  rest  may  be  untroubled, 
Long  and  dreamless,  still  and  deep,- 


A  Heart-Sob  93 

Where  the  maiden  violets  waken 

To  the  kisses  of  the  rain, 
Bear  me,  in  the  dawning  spring-time, 

The  freed  prisoner  of  pain ! 

Where  the  young  moss  looks  the  greenest, 

And  the  trees  stand  thick  and  tall, 
And  you  hear  the  murmurous  music 

Of  a  hidden  waterfall. 
For  I  think  I  shall  sleep  sweetest 

In  the  old  woods,  cool  and  dim; 
Nature's  being  blending  round  me 

In  one  grand,  perpetual  hymn. 

When  upon  my  careworn  forehead 

Rests  the  seal  of  endless  peace, 
And  my  mute  lips  smile  in  blessing 

For  this  day  of  glad  release, — 
When  I'm  lying,  with  drooped  eyelids, 

Heedless  of  the  morning  beam 
Lighting  up  my  lifeless  tresses 

Strangely,  with  its  living  gleam, — 

Then  remember  but  my  sorrow, 

And  my  strong,  exceeding  love ; 
How  with  fiery  pride  and  passion 

Long  my  woman's  nature  strove. 
Though  I  yielded,  think  how  deeply 

Late  repentance  pained  my  soul, 
When  the  love  I  sought  to  stifle 

Would  not  bow  to  my  control. 

0,  forget  my  faults,  sweet  mother ! 

Let  all  bitter  memories  go ; 
Thinking,  with  a  Christ-like  mercy, 

How  I  loved  and  suffered  so 
That  my  passionate  heart  was  broken 

By  a  lot  so  incomplete ; 
How  without  him  life  grew  bitter, 

Till,  to  reach  him,  Death  grew  sweet ! 


94  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

LXX. 

A  woman's  voice, 

So  weak  it  makes  you  think  of  graves,  is  singing 

Some  hearts  that  are  too  warm,  too  wild, 
Must  needs  be  broken  for  their  good ; 

Not  till  the  artist's  work  is  done 
Is  the  design  well  understood. 

And  suffering  sublimes  the  soul; 

So  perfect  peace  will  come  at  last, 
And  I  shall  know  God's  kind  intent 

When  these  sharp  pains  are  overpast ! 


And  as  for  me,  let  all  souls  know  my  creed: 

One  God,  one  love,  both  strangers  to  betrayal, — • 

One  sovereign  heart  which  pities  the  mistakes 

Of  weaker  hearts,  and  what  they  suffer  here, 

And  does  not  stamp  the  petty  frowns  of  Time 

On  the  grand  forehead  of  Eternity. 

One  God,  one  love,  for  this  world  and  the  next ! 

If  He  should  will  it  so,  one  happy  love ; 

If  we  should  mar  our  fates,  yet  still  one  love— 

Though  one  unhappy  love — that  knows  no  change, 

No  questioning,  no  doubting  to  the  end; 

Till  two  twin  souls  be  free  to  lose  themselves 

Each  in  the  other,  in  such  natural  wise, 

Their  guardian  angels,  even,  shall  not  be  able 

To  separate  and  name  them ! 

Because  I  do  believe,  with  all  my  strength, 

That  God  will  never  wholly  put  asunder 

Two  souls  that  truly  love, — that  count  not  death, 

Nor  pain,  nor  shame,  nor  loss  of  worldly  good, 

As  anything  in  face  of  that  great  need 

Which  draws  them  toward  each  other. 

They  may  sin,  and  so  put  love  to  shame ; 


A  Heart-Sob  95 

And  if  they  sin,  I  know  that  they  must  suffer ; 
Suffering,  if  love  stays  with  them,  they  are  purified. 
And  though  God  may  divide  them  in  this  world, 
If  they  keep  faithful,  God  himself  is  for  them, 
Since  He  is  love.    And  if  they  are  but  patient 
I  know  that  He  will  mate  them  in  that  future 
Where  every  atom  finds  its  proper  place 
Because  of  sheer  attraction ! 


96  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 


BROKEN  LINKS. 


OLD  AND  NEW. 

A  tousled  letter  with  broken  seal ; 

A  dusty  zithern  with  slackened  strings; 
A  shattered  nest  and  a  rotten  keel;. 

Distrust  that  sucketh  the  lives  of  kings; 
A  heart  that  is  cold  to  woe  or  weal; 

A  bird  that  nutters  on  tired  wings ; 
The  slave's  dull  pain  that  will  not  heal; 

And  stones  too  heavy  for  him  that  slings ; 

And  a  pulse  too  quick  for  the  earth's  slow  swings ; 

An  ancient  woman,  whose  quaverings 

Shake  the  sense  from  her  utterings, 

With  an  "0  for  the  light  of  the  faded  springs! 

And  alack  for  the  fate  of  forgotten  things ! 
And  ah  for  the  sorrow  of  what  has  been! 
The  world's  a  flower  with  a  worm  within!" 


A  morn  fresh  sprung  from  the  loins  of  night; 

A  song  that  is  silver  in  all  its  rings; 
A  heart  that  waketh  for  pure  delight; 

And  the  first  blue  flowers  that  April  brings ; 
And  blind  eyes  looking  at  last  on  light ; 

A  foot  that  is  free  in  its  wanderings ; 
A  sweet  bride  hid  in  a  cloud  of  white; 

And  a  hand  that  is  loose  on  its  garnerings ; 

A  lover  that  laughs  at  reckonings; 

A  child  just  out  of  its  leading-strings ; 

And  a  true-eyed  maiden  who  fearless  flings 

The  sunlit  hair  from  her  brow,  and  sings : 


Violets  in  Autumn  97 

"And  it's  hey,  for  the  light  of  the  coming  springs! 

And  it's  ho,  for  the  bliss  of  unsounded  things ! 
And  it's  ay,  for  the  rapture  that  is  to  be 
In  the  world  new  blossomed  fcr  Love  and  me!" 

January  1,   1872. 


VIOLETS  IN  AUTUMN. 

I  knew  I  should  find  the  Daisy, 

With  her  forehead  so  brave  and  white, 
For  the  sun  is  her  lover,  to  comfort  her, 

And  to  keep  her  in  beauty  bright ; 
And  she  folds  the  last  of  his  kisses 

In  the  golden  well  of  her  cup, 
Then  fearless  sleeps  in  the  frosty  fields 

Till  the  morning  wakes  her  up. 

And  the  purple  Pink  o'  the  mountain 

Droppeth  her  velvet  train 
Where  the  stricken  glory  of  forest  leaves 

Is  shed  in  a  scarlet  rain ; 
And  nods  to  the  late  red  Clover, 

And  the  stoical  Immortelle ; 
And  the  timid  buds  of  the  Dewberry 

Hide  down  in  the  sunny  dell. 

And  I  gathered  the  golden  Aster 

And  the  blossomy  blades  of  grass ; 
Each  bowing  low,  like  a  courtier, 

To  let  his  lady  pass; 
But  the  Violet!— 0  the  Violet!— 

I  thought  they  were  all  asleep, 
Each  on  her  pillow  of  thistledown 

In  the  pine  wood  dark  and  deep. 

But  they  stood  in  hapless  beauty 
Under  the  sullen  skies, 


98  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Each  lamenting  her  mother,  Spring, 
With  the  sorrow  of  dewy  eyes: 

Five  o'  them,  April's  darlings, 
On  a  bank  of  yellowed  moss, 

That  long  ago  the  sonth-wind 
Had  forgotten  to  blow  across. 

And  I  took  these  meek,  sweet  orphans, 

Fair  set  'neath  emerald  eaves; 
But  all  for  the  love  of  the  secret  dear 

That  was  hidden  among  their  leaves. 
Five  little  heads  blue  hooded, 

Your  message  was  all  for  me ! 
And  ye  were  its  fittest  carriers, 

For  all  that  ye  were  so  wee ! 

October.    1869. 


WHICH  IS  BEST? 

What  if  I  saved  from  trampling  feet 

The  drooping  plumes  of  a  wounded  bird, 

And  tended  its  hurt  with  a  gentle  hand 
Till  its  life  new  stirred? 

What  if  it  nestled  against  my  cheek, 
And  tamed  its  shyness  upon  my  breast, 

Until  I  believed  that  it  loved  me  more 
Than  its  old-time  nest? 

And  if  some  day,  when  I  prized  it  most, 

It  should  leave  my  hand  with  a  sudden  spring, 

And  cleave  the  blue  of  the  summer  sky 
With  a  freshened  wing, 

And  never  pause  at  my  pleading  call, — 
Never  come  back  to  my  desolate  breast, — 


The  Loosing  of  Lilith  99 

And  forget  I  had  saved  its  life,  and  forget 
I  had  loved  it  best,— 

Should  I  never  open  my  arms  again 

To  any  helpless  or  suffering  thing? 
Never  bind  up  the  bruised  heart 

Nor  the  broken  wing? 

Better,  a  thousand  times,  to  bear 

A  blow  in  place  of  an  earned  caress, 

Than  to  turn  aside  into  selfish  ways, 
Or  to  pity  less. 

Better  the.long  abiding  pain 

Of  a  wronged  love,  in  its  sufferance  meek, 
Than  the  hardened  heart  and  the  bitter  tongue. 

And  the  sullen  cheek. 

1869. 


THE  LOOSING  OF  LILITH. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTUKY. 
["Lilith  was  Adam's  first  wife." — Legend  of   the   Talmud.] 

She  was  tired  of  strangling  the  hearts  of  boy» 

With  the  strands  of  her  gold-red  hair; 
She  was  tired  of  blighting  the  innocent  brows 

Of  babies  lusty  and  fair; 
So  she  said  unto  God,  "I  pray  thee,  Lord, 

Let  me  wander  upon  the  earth, 
To  teach  new  ways  to  the  women  there 

Who  are  weary  of  home  and  hearth." 

But  the  wonderful  Mother  of  Christ,  who  sat 

On  the  topmost  step  of  the  throne, 
She  looked  up  to  God  the  Father  and  said, 

When  the  words  of  Lilith  were  done : 


100  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

"Now,  for  the  sake  of  the  Son  I  bore, 
Let  thy  least  handmaiden  speak'' ; 

And  she  bowed  her  before  the  Father  God 
In  reverence  sweet  and  meek. 

Then  a  great  new  light  went  flashing  out 

Through  the  mansions  many  and  fair ; 
And  the  seraphim  glanced  up  Godward  then, 

Of  His  sudden  smiling  aware ; 
And  the  dear  Christ  said  to  his  mother  mild, 

"Beloved,  the  Father  hears !" 
And  Lilith,  she  stretched  her  lithe  white  neck, 

And  put  the  hair  from  her  ears ; 

For  the  voice  of  Mary  was  sweet  and  low, 

Like  the  wind  by  the  river  of  God, 
And  she  said,  "My  Father,  I  pray  thee  now 

Loose  not  this  creature  abroad. 
She  hath  troubled  the  sons  of  Adam  sore 

But  she  hath  not  worked  her  worst : 
0  let  her  not  vex  the  daughters  of  Eve : 

This  was  not  written  at  first," 

Christ  looked  in  the  Father's  face,  and  then 

Over  his  lips  there  flowed 
The  hidden  thought  of  the  Lord  of  heaven, 

While  the  visage  of  Lilith  glowed: 
"They  have  forgotten  thee,  mother  mine, — 

These  women  who  deafen  the  earth; 
Let  Adam's  rejected  teach  them  now 

What  a  brawling  woman  is  worth." 

Straight  out  of  heaven  sped  Lilith  then, 
With  a  cruel  scorn  in  her  eyes, — 

She  that  was  first  made  equal  with  Adam, 
And  that  fell,  being  overwise. 

It  is  not  a  new  story  now,  you  know : 
They  were  too  much  alike  to  agree ; 


The  Loosing  of  Lilith  101 

And  she  wrangled  and  fought  with  Adam,  until 
God,  pitiful,  set  him  free, 

And  gave  him  to  wife  the  meeker  Eve, 

Who  sinned  through  womanly  trust, . 
And  who,  in  her  sorrow  for  sin,  was  like 

A  sweet  crushed  flower  i'  the  dust. 
Therefore  it  had  come  to  pass  that  Lilith 

Sore  hated  the  daughters  of  Eve, 
Because  to  their  mother,  beloved  of  Adam, 

Our  God  had  given  reprieve. 

Concerning  the  doings  of  Lilith  011  earth, 

If  you.ll  look  abroad  in  the  land, 
You'll  see  that  the  caldron  of  wrath  is  stirred 

By  her  white  and  devilish  hand. 
Wherever  she  findeth  a  woman's  heart 

That  is  easy  to  trap  or  to  win, 
That  will  none  of  the  meekness  of  Mary  mild, 

She  straightway  entereth  in; 

And  her  image,  it  multiplieth  fast, — 

Too  fast  for  the  peace  of  the  world ; 
And  Lilith  meets  you  at  every  step, 

Ribboned  and  creped  and  curled. 
Her  marks  are  a  sceptical,  brazen  brow, 

And  a  hard  and  a  glittering  eye, 
And  a  voice  that  striveth  to  fill  the  world 

With  its  clamoring  shrill  and  high. 

Ah !  do  you  think  that  a  Christ  could  be 

Born  of  a  woman  like  this? 
Is  there  any  rest  in  the  arms  of  such, 

Whose  lips  are  bitter  to  kiss? 
Woe  fcr  the  little  children  that  cling, 

Unwelcomed,  upcn  their  hands; 
They  are  only  thinking  of  how  their  deeds 

May  startle  the  farthest  lands. 


102  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

When  the  fire  goes  out  on  the  hearth  at  home, 

And  the  chamber  is  left  unkept ; 
When  a.  shadow  that  climbeth  from  heart  to  eye 

Twix  £  husband  and  wife  hath  crept ; 
When  the  wife  is  shy  of  the  mother's  estate, 

rAnd  maidens  are  counting  the  cost, — 
It  behooves  us  to  think  a  little  upon 

The  glory  that  Lilith  lost. 

Tf  we  go  down  to  the  root  of  the  thing, 

We  shall  see  that  they  put  Self  first, 
And  that  is  the  sin  of  sins,  for  which 

Fair  Lilith  was  greatly  curst. 
They  are  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  Cross, 

And  Self  is  their  idol  in  life, 
And  it  is  not  the  voice  of  God  they  hear, 

But  of  Adam's  demon  wife. 

1871. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  CHANT  OF  THE  BRETON 
-  PEASANTS. 

It  was  a  dim,  delicious  night; 
The  earth,  close  wrapt  in  ermined  white, 
Lay  languid,  in  the  misty  light. 
The  circling  spheres  were  all  in  tune, 
And,  in  their  midst,  the  Empress  Moon 
Was  brightening  to  her  highest  noon. 
It  was  the  night  when  Bethlehem's  star 
Guided  the  sages  from  afar. 
It  was  the  night  when  shepherds  heard 
The  reverent  air  by  music  stirred. 
It  was  the  night  of  old  renown, 
When  wondering  angel-eyes  looked  down, 
To  see  Christ's  head,  bare  of  its  crown, 
Within  the  manger  laid ! 


Christmas  Eve  Chant  103 

There  is  a  sound  of  thronging  feet, — 
What  youthful  crowds  are  in  the  street ! 
They  go  out  from  the  stifling  town, 
They  seek  the  white  and  lonely  down ; 
They  walk  in  silence,  till  they  find 
A  spot  where  four  roads  straitly  wind. 
Where  four  roads  meet,  about  a  place 
Made  sacred  by  the  Cross's  grace. 
There,  men  and  maids,  in  separate  file, 
Do  range  themselves,  nor  speak  the  while, 
Nor  break  the  charm,  by  gest'  or  smile. 
Till,  sudden,  breaks  upon  the  air 
A  sound  of  singing,  strong  and  clear, — 
Thus  chant  the  hardy  Breton  youths : 

"What  is  new  upon  the  earth; 
What  fresh  wonder  goeth  forth, 

That  its  ways  are  full  of  pilgrims 
And  its  dwellings  full  of  mirth? 

"Sounds  of  gladness  on  the  air ! 
Happy  faces  everywhere ! 

Tell  us,  0  ye  silent  virgins ! 
Wherefore  is  the  night  so  fair?" 

Then,  silver-soft,  the  girlish  voices  ri«e, 
And  with  the  sweetness  of  their  meek  replies 
Upon  the  frosty  air  breed  melodies: 

"Lo !  the  sacred  hour  is  near ! 
What  was  darkened  now  is  clear. 

Christ  is  coming !    Raise  your  voices, — 
Say  Farewell  to  Doubt  and  Fear !" 

Resounding  through  the  darkness,  then, 
Peal  the  deep  voices  of  the  men, 
WTho  raise  the  solemn  song  again: 


1G4  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

"Why  is  all  the  world  abroad, 
Raising  midnight  prayers  to  God, 

Till  the  censered  air  is  heavy 
With  its  supplicating  load?" 

Then  clearer,  purer,  richer,  rise 
The  hidden  maidens'  sweet  replies, 
Like  wonders  out  of  mysteries : 

"Lo !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born ! 
Lo !  on  high  the  star  of  morn ! 

And  it  shall  not  fade  forever, 
Nor  its  brilliancy  be  shorn." 

Then,  in  concord  perfect,  sweet, 
Tones  of  youths  and  maidens  meet; 

And  they  gladly  sing  together, 
This  auspicious  hour  to  greet: 

"Sing  tonight, — for  Christ  is  born! 
Lo  !  on  high  the  star  of  morn ! 

And  it  shall  not  fade  forever, 
Nor  its  brilliancy  be  shorn. 

"Sing !  deliverance  from  our  woes, 
By  the  blood  tint  overflows 

And  renews  the  Son  of  Adam, — 
He  no  longer  burdened  goes. 

"Sing!  because  it  is  His  feast; 
Join  the  Princes  of  the  East, 

Bring  Him  gifts  amid  rejoicings, — 
He  will  smile  upon  the  least ! 

"Sing !  while  Christmas  crowns  ye  weave ; 
On  the  Cross  a  garland  leave. 

Lo !  the  World's  one  Virgin-Mother 
Heals  the  hurt  that  came  of  Eve !" 

1865. 


Broken  Off  105 


BROKEN  OFF. 

Men  said  unto  a  prince  of  story-tellers, 

"Tell  us  another  tale !" 
And  yet,  beside  the  bells,  stood  phantom  knellers, 

And  his  voice  was  fit  to  fail. 

At  first  he  faltered,  saying,  "I  am  weary, 
And  the  words  are  slow  to  come. 

Across  my  ken  flit  visions  dim  and  eerie, 
And  'tis  sweet  to  keep  at  home !" 

But  the  clamor  rose,  by  many  voices  strengthened; 

And  one  voice  in  his  heart 
Grew  louder  as  the  spring-tide  shadows  lengthened : 

"Ah!  'tis  dull  to  sit  apart! 

"Be  prouder  than  to  wait  with  fingers  folded, 

Scared,  looking  out  for  death ; 
Drop  not  the  habit  which  thy  life  hath  moulded 

But  with  thy  lease  of  breath !" 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  heavy  forehead, 

And  then  across  his  eyes ; 
Before  him  rose  a  spectre,  dim  and  horrid, 

With  terrible  replies: 

"The  name  by  which  men  name  me  while  they  shiver, 

It  is  Swiftly  Certain  Death. 
Leave  all  thy  latest  arrows  in  their  quiver, 

Or  'gage  to  me  thy  breath!" 

Ah  me !  this  prince  of  worthy  story-tellers 
Stood  sad  beneath  the  sun; 


106  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

For  he  could  see  where  stood  the  phantom  kneller — 
But  the  story  was  begun ! 

Some  said,  "It  is  his  story  of  all  stories" ; 

And  others :    "Lo  !  he  fails  ! 
His  later  cannot  match  his  earlier  glories, — 

He  falters  and  he  pales !" 

But  men  pressed  around  him,  eagerly,  to  listen; 

And  all  else  was  forgot. 
He  coaxed  the  smile  to  shine,  the  tear  to  glisten ; 

And  then — his  voice  was  not ! 

The  tale  was  but  begun, — the  web  half  woven, 

The  colors  scarcely  mixed, — 
The  cunning  of  his  hand  was  not  yet  proven, — 

His  intent  hardly  fixed. 

For  the  dark  comrade  who  waked  with  his  walking 

Laid  lightly  on  his  lip 
A  cold  forefinger,— and  he  ceased  from  talking — 

Suddenly — without  slip. 

Ah !  still  lips  locked  on  the  mysterious  story ! 

Ah !  hand  that  cannot  hold 
The  pen  by  which  he  earned  his  meed  of  glory, — 

He's  dead !  and  'tis  not  told ! 

1870. 


THE  MISSING  STEAMER. 

Breeze !  thou  hast  swept  o'er  the  stormy  Atlantic, 
Thy  kisses  are  fresh  with  the  salt  of  its  spray; 
Knowest  thou  aught  of  the  ship  that  is  missing, — 
The  ship  that  sailed  bravely  and  blithely  away? 
Answer,  0,  answer! 


Dear  Mother  107 

Wavelet !  the  seething  of  turbulent  waters 
Sent  thee  to  break  on  this  still,  sunny  beach; 
Say !  did  she  yield  to  the  storm  and  the  darkness, 
Or  spread  her  white  sails  till  they  bore  her  from 
reach; 

Answer,  0,  answer ! 

Where  have  ye  drifted  her,  winds  of  the  ocean? 
Where  have  ye  stranded  her,  waves  of  the  sea? 
What  is  the  fate  that  hath  claimed  her  and  wrapped 

her? 

Whisper,  0,  whisper  the  secret  to  me. 
Answer,  0,  answer! 

Thou  that  controllest  the  might  of  the  tempest 
Thou  that  restrainest  the  wing  of  the  wind, — 
Thou,  in  thy  ken,  boldest  all  of  this  mystery; 
Lift  up  the  veil,  and  show  what  is  behind. 
Answer,  Lord,  answer! 

For  behold !   there  are  hearts  that  cry  out  in  the 

night-time. 

That  have  no  delight  in  the  face  of  the  day, — 
Hearts  that  go  out  o'er  the  waste  of  the  waters, 
To  seek  for  the  ship  that  sailed  blithely  awaj. 
Answer,  Lord,  answer ! 

1870. 


DEAR  MOTHER. 

I  locked  my  hand  in  hers,  and  said, 

"Let  me  go  with  her  through  this  dark; 

For  all  the  good  and  ill  of  life 

Has  touched  us  with  the  self -same  mark. 

Some  bitter  pains  I  comprehend, 
But  not  the  absence  of  her  love, 


108  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Whose  deep,  unfailing  tenderness 
Would  any  lighter  friend  reprove." 

I  called  her, — but  the  mother-look 
Was  blotted  out  in  Death's  eclipse ; 

And,  vaguely  desolate,  I  shrank 
Before  those  altering  eyes  and  lips. 

0  God !  since  ever  I  could  speak 

My  voice  had  fallen  on  faithful  ears; 
'Twas  "Mother !"  in  my  triumph  hour, 
And  "Mother!"  in  my  time  of  tears. 

1  saw  her  going  from  my  grasp 
Beyond  the  boundaries  of  Time, — 

Beyond  the  life  her  soul  had  made 
Through  love  and  suffering  sublime. 

I  could  not  shield,  nor  share,  nor  save ; 
She  drifted  deathward  all  alone ; 

Her  heart  insensate  to  my  pain, 
Her  ear  unheeding  of  my  moan.     . 

Yet  mother-love,  rare  mother-love, 

Responsive  in  the  throes  of  death ! 
The  soul  triumphant  over  clay, 

Was  victor  of  her  latest  breath. 
Sudden  into  her  darkened  eyes 

Flashed  Love  and  Memory  at  the  last ; 
And  then  the  spirit's  radiance  set, 

And  the  dear  face  was  overcast. 

Only  the  shell  which  held  the  seed; 

Only  the  casket  of  the  gem ; 
But  all  the  bitterness  for  us, 

And  all  the  victory  for  them ! 
For  us,  the  deep,  slow-closing  wound; 

For  us,  the  haunting  pain  of  years ; 
The  dull,  vague,  aching  sense  of  loss 

Alternate  with  our  passionate  tears. 


1864. 


A  Problem  109 

Not  yet  the  creed  of  Faith  can  fill 

This  bitter  want,  these  empty  arms: 
It  will  not  sooth  me  now  to  know 

That  she  is  locked  from  life's  alarms. 
For  when  I  see  this  pale,  strange  face, 

So  like,  yet  so  unlike  her  own, 
I  only  feel  that  she  is  gone, 

And  I  must  learn  to  live  alone. 

I  know  this  is  not  Mother  now ; 

And  yet  I  cling  about  this  clay, 
And  watch  to  see  that  look  break  out 

Which  met  me  but  the  other  day. 
So  calm !    A  furrow  on  the  brow 

Still  lingers.     'Twas  the  work  of  years ; 
A  mother's  tears, — a  mother's  pangs, — 

Mute  token  of  a  mother's  cares ! 

Somewhere,  I  know,  she  waits  for  me, 

In  some  bright  nook  of  ageless  lands ; 
But  0,  I  miss  the  fleshly  proofs 

Which  craving  human  love  demands. 
To  see  her  dresses  laid  aside, 

To  take  the  books  she  used  to  read, 
And  find  the  flowers  she  placed  within — 

O  mother !  this  is  pain  indeed. 


A  PROBLEM. 

I 

Two  brothers  at  one  mother's  knee, 
Kissed  by  the  rosy  fleeting  hours, 

Alike  in  boyish  bearing  free, 

Laugh  out  among  the  morning  flowers,- 
The  paths  in  which  their  feet  are  set 

Unparted  and  unwidened  yet, 


110  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

They  linger  at  that  mother's  side 
Awhile  with  timid  clinging  hands, 

Until  the  path  grows  fair  and  wide 
And  stretches  into  distant  lands — 

Alas  for  fancy's  mirage  gleam ! 

Alas  for  boyhood's  broken  dream! 

And  now,  no  longer  hand  in  hand, 

They  wander  singly, — far  apart; 
Alone,  each  treads  the  dangerous  sand, 

Or  fronts  the  storm  with  dauntless  heart,— 
In  thought  and  word  how  different  they, 
The  two  who  in  one  cradle  lay. 

For  one  the  path  grew  drear  and  strait, 
And  stones  and  thorns  choked  up  the  way; 

The  clouds,  that  hung  like  leaden  fate 
Above  him,  hid  the  light  of  day, 

Save  when  the  angry  noontide  glare 

Fell  on  the  head  in  meekness  bare. 

Poor  feet!     All  worn  and  bleeding  now. 

But  what  a  conquering  soul  looks  out 
From  eyes  serene — 0  hallowed  brow ! — 

Undarkened  by  any  shade  of  doubt. 
He  faded  in  a  calm  devout, 
Unflushed  by  grand  triumphal  shout. 

The  other  followed  out  his  fate, — 
'Twas  written  in  his  eagle  eye, — 

He  stemmed  a  tide  of  wrath  and  hate, 
And  towered  above  it,  lone  and  high. 

Not  for  his  feet  the  lowly  ways, 

With  few  to  love  and  none  to  praise ! 

He  climbed  until  he  gained  the  height, 
He  strove  until  he  clutched  the  crown; 

Till — proved  the  stoutest  in  the  fight 
And  deafened  with  his  own  renown— 


An  Empty  Nest  111 

With  tired  heart  and  drooping  lid, 

He  sank, — and  from  the  world  was  hid. 

Two  souls,  each  costly  with  the  worth 

Of  Nature's  inborn  nobleness, — 
With  laurelled  brow  one  trod  the  earth; 

Alone,  in  darkness  and  distress, 
The  other  toiled  until  the  day 
Gave  place  to  evening's  shadows  gray. 

Yet,  when  each  glory-robed  gate 

Its  golden  splendor  flings  apart, 
And  those  two  souls  without  them  wait, 

Which  hath  the  higher,  nobler  part? 
Both  names  are  shrined  in  such  an  equal  burst 
Of  angel  notes,  Heaven  knows  not  which  was  first ! 


AN  EMPTY  NEST. 

Mine  is  the  song  of  an  empty  nest, 
Others  will  bring  you  braver  songs ; 

But  mine  must  utter  my  heart's  behest, 
Though  I  sing  it  to  heedless  thrcngs. 

My  steps  were  over  the  blenched  leaves 
That  had  taken  the  frost's  untimely  kiss; 

Not  long  ago  we'd  carried  the  sheaves; 
But  the  season  was  all  amiss. 

With  hanging  head  and  with  loitering  feet 

Toward  the  open  land  I  went, 
Through  places  that  summer  had  made  so  sweet 

With  a  glamour  but  briefly  lent. 

I  trod  upon  something  soft  and  dry, — 

For  my  eyes  were  full  on  the  flaming  west; 


112  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

And  just  where  the  grass  was  thick  and  high 
Was  lying — an  empty  nest. 

0,  what  visions  of  faded  spring, 
0,  what  memories  of  silenced  song, 

Of  brooding  breast  and  of  glancing  wing, 
To  an  empty  nest  belong ! 

And  the  thought  that  suddenly  came  to  me — 
Close  to  the  water,  facing  the  west — 

Was  of  some  singing  that  used  to  be 
In  another  forsaken  nest. 

There  were  two  birds  that  began  to  sing 
Low  in  the  fields  of  yellow  corn, 

Not  for  the  heed  their  song  would  bring, 
But  for  love  of  the  dewy  morn. 

Birds  of  one  feather,  and  sister  birds, 
Crowded  out  of  a  roof-tree  nest, 

Hatched  within  sound  of  lowing  herds, 
But  flying  away  from  the  west. 

Birds  of  one  feather  fare  best  together; 

Singing  they  built  them  another  nest, 
Sat  in  it  and  sang,  in  the  worst  of  weather, 

Each  loving  the  other  best. 

But  we  who  listened  one  morning  knew 
That  only  one  bird  was  left  to  sing, — 

They  never  had  sung  apart,  the  two, — 
And  we  talked  of  a  broken  wing. 

Now,  should  you  chance  to  walk  that  way, 
You  would  vainly  listen  for  any  song; 

But  what  regrets  for  the  vanished  lay 
To  this  empty  nest  belong ! 


An  Unpremeditated  Answer  113 


AN  UNPREMEDITATED  ANSWER. 

s.  s.  c. 

You  say  that  my  songs  are  sad  ones, 

But  O,  is  the  world  not  sad? 
How  the  sobs  follow  swift  on  laughter, 

Before  we  have  time  to  be  glad! 

We  come  into  life  with  wailing; 

When  we  love  we  are  pale  with  fear; 
The  babe,  the  bride,  and  the  dead  man 

Each  give  or  receive  a  tear. 

The  sea  is  forever  moaning, 

And  the  pines  forever  sigh ; 
Would  you  mix  with  their  plaint  the  laughter 

Of  so  weak  a  thing  as  I; 


114  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 


IN  ITALY. 


ALMA  MATER. 

Delight  of  my  spirit, —  [taly! 

Shining  across  the  sea ! 
I  have  broken  the  vow  I  made 

Never  to  part  from  thee. 
Pity  me  for  my  broken  vow 

Because  of  my  breaking  heart, 
That  is  so  sick  for  the  lack  of  thee, 

All  ravishing  that  thou  art ! 

My  beautiful  mother, — Italy! 

Rose  of  a  thousand  charms ! 
Pain  and  Death  I  could  laugh  away, 

Lying  within  thine  arms ! 
Sweet  mother !  I  could  forget  the  hope 

That  found  me  but  to  slay, 
And  fret  no  more  for  the  joy  that  was 

But  the  changeling  of  a  day! 

All  the  others  have  played  me  false, 

But  I  know  thou  art  for  me. 
Nothing  can  hurt  the  deep  delight 

That  cometh  of  loving  thee. 
Tender  nurse  of  my  starveling  life ! 

Dear  comfortress  of  my  soul! 
Once  I  gave  thee  half  my  love, 

Now  thou  shalt  have  the  whole. 

I'm  pale  for  the  lack  of  thy  sunny  skies, 
I  call  to  thee  in  my  dreams. 


A  New  Legend  115 

0  for  the  scent  of  thine  orange-groves, 
For  the  shout  of  thy  silver  streams ! 

The  blood-red  rose  of  the  South  will  fade 
In  a  clime  that  is  overcast, 

And  thus  I  wither  afar  from  thee, — 
My  best  love  and  my  last ! 


A  NEW  LEGEND. 

They  come  from  the  North  and  the  West  and  the 

East- 
Men  that  are  mightiest  and  men  that  are  *east : 
Where  are  they  bidden,  and  where  is  the  feast? 
"  'Tis  a  fair  dead  woman  we're  going  to  see ; 
And  her  name  of  names  it  was  Italy !" 

So  they  go  down  to  the  spicy  South — 
That  is  silent,  because  of  her  songless  mouth; 
And  dreary,  for  even  of  tears  there's  drouth — 
To  wonder  and  pity  that  such  should  be 
The  fall  of  her  that  was  Italy. 

And  three  princes  of  might  there  were  with  them; 
And  the  foremost,  he  kissed  her  cerement's  hem ; 
And  he  said:    "She  is  broken  off  at  the  stem, 
But  a  fairer  flower  we  shall  never  see !" 
And  he  wept  because  of  her, — Italy! 

But  the  second  came  tearless  and  nearer  pressed, 
And  he  sternly  gazed  on  the  stirless  breast : 
"She  would  not  bend  to  my  fierce  behest; 
And  she  died  in  my  gripe,  for  she  hated  me ; 
So  I  helped  to  kill  her,— Italy!" 

But  the  third  was  unlike  the  second  and  first, 
Though  his  face  showed  not  how  his  heart  was  curst ; 


116  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

For  he  hid  his  thought  till  in  flame  it  burst; 
And  he  said  to  the  others :  "Let  us  see 
If  she's  dead  or  sleeping, — Italy !" 

"For  'tis  said  that  she  grieved  herself  to  death 
For  a  boon  that  she  craved  with  her  failing  breath. 
Who  knows  but  a  life-throb  lingers  beneath !" 
So  he  called  her — the  fair,  dead  mystery— 
By  her  name  of  names,  which  was  Italy! 

And  he  said  to  her :  "Rise !   Behold  the  hour ! 
I  will  breathe  into  thee  the  breath  of  my  power; 
I  will  help  thee  reconquer  thine  olden  dower. 
I  will  help  thee  to  stand  up  fair  and  free,— 
I  thy  knight,  thou  my  lady,  Italy!" 

:  :       i        •','•.  ;  .    : .'    <  ' 

He  bent  him  down  to  her  dulled  ear; 

And  the  soul,  that  was  faint  with  hunger  and  fear, 

Thrilled  and  wakened  and  turned  to  hear; 

And  she  rose  up,  fair  as  fair  could  be, 

And  the  world  was  glad  of  her, — Italy! 

She  arose  in  her  palace  of  delight, 
And  shook  from  her  eyelids  the  mists  of  night, 
And  walked  again  in  her  beauty's  might; 
And  she  reckoned  with  all  the  princes  three, 
But  she  kissed  the  third  one, — Italy! 

She  kissed  him  closely,  upon  his  mouth, 
With  the  fast,  warm  kisses  of  eager  youth: 
"Come  into  my  garden,  that  fronts  the  south ! 
There's  no  sweet  thing  that  shall  not  be 
For  my  knight  of  the  lilies,"  said  Italy. 

So  they  wandered  away  in  the  sunny  weather, 
In  the  groves  of  citron-blossoms,  together. 
At  first  she  forgot  to  ask  him  whether 
His  love  was  a  free  gift,  and  if  he'd  be 
Helper  or  tyrant  to  Italy. 


A  New  Legend  117 

And  she  said  to  him,  "You  have  me  free,  

When  I  thought  this  never  again  could  be ; 
But  the  seal  of  my  bridal  with  Liberty 
Is  kept  by  my  cursers  away  from  me. 
Will  you  help  me  to  get  it?"  said  Italy. 

How  heavily  fell  her  heart !  and  0, 
How  salt  were  her  tears  when  he  answered,  "No !" 
But  they  changed  to  fire  when  she  turned  to  go ; 
For  he  held  her  back,  nor  would  leave  her  free . 
In  his  strength  he  constrained  her, — Italy. 

She  said:  "I  thought  my  sorrows  were  done, 
And  now  I  see  they  are  but  begun. 
Of  friends  to  help  me  there  is  not  one. 
I've  found  a  foe  where  a  lover  should  be : 
There's  death  in  his  kisses,"  said  Italy. 

"His  helping  has  burdened  me  overmuch 
If  my  steps  must  turn  at  his  guiding  touch ; 
And  fate  of  mine  can  never  be  such. 
He  keeps  the  crown  of  my  pride  from  me !" 
And  she  drooped  for  the  shame  of  it, — Italy! 

She  sat  in  the  dust,  with  her  face  to  Rome: 
"O  thou,  of  princes  and  martyrs  the  home ! 
With  thine  unlit  beacon,  the  great  white  dome, — 
I  am  thine !  thou  art  mine !    And  no  good  shall  be 
While  they  plot  to  part  us,"  said  Italy. 

She  raised  her  head  up,  and  she  said : 
"Turin  to  serve  me  when  I  am  wed ; 
But  Rome  for  the  crowning  of  my  head: 
There  shall  be  no  joy  till  this  thing  be." 
And  this  was  the  burden  of  Italy. 

She  stretched  her  hand  out,  and  she  said: 
"Milan  to  adorn  me  when  I  am  wed; 
But  Rome  for  the  crowning  of  my  head: 


118  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

There  shall  be  no  joy  till  this  thing  be." 
And  this  was  the  burden  of  Italy. 

She  stretched  her  hand  out,  and  she  said : 
"Milan  to  adorn  me  when  I  am  wed; 
But  Rome  for  the  crowning  of  my  head : 
There  shall  be  no  singing  till  this  thing  be." 
And  this  was  the  burden  of  Italy. 

She  walked  a  little  apart,  and  said : 
"Florence  to  tire  me  when  I  am  wed; 
But  Rome  for  the  crowning  of  my  head : 
There  shall  be  no  feasting  till  this  thing  be." 
And  this  was  the  burden  of  Italy. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  hilt,  and  said. 
"Venice  to  gird  me  when  I  am  wed; 
But  Rome  for  the  crowning  of  my  head : 
There  shall  be  no  peace  till  this  thing  be." 
And  this  was  the  burden  of  Italy. 

She  plucked  the  sword  half  out,  and  said: 
"Naples  to  please  me  when  I  am  wed ; 
But  Rome  is  the  place  of  my  bridal  bed, 
The  seal  of  my  glory  and  unity." 
And  this  was  the  burden  of  Italy. 

She  set  her  feet  in  the  path  to  Rcme, 
But  the  day  and  the  hour  were  not  yet  come ; 
And  with  face  as  white  as  the  white  sea-foam, 
And  soul  that  was  anguished  unutterably, 
She  turned  away  backward, — Italy! 

"But  I  wait,"  she  said,  "by  the  light  of  the  sun,- 
I  wait  with  my  errand  but  begun ; 
I  wait  with  my  crowning  work  undone : 
There  shall  be  discord  till  this  thing  be." 
This  is  the  last  saying  of  Italy. 

Just  after  Mentana,   1868. 


The  Sequel  of  "A  New  Legend."  119 


THE  SEQUEL  TO  "A  NEW  LEGEND." 

And  still  she  sat    in  the  road  to  Rome, 

With  her  hungry  eyes  on  the  great  white  dome, 

Mindless  of  riot  and  ruin  at  home, 

Saying  to  passers,  "Let  me  be: 

Behold,  I  am  she  that  was  Italy !" 

And  hanging  her  head  for  sorest  shame 

At  the  growing  dishonor  of  her  name, 

While  the  summers  went  and  the  winters  came; 

And,  passing,  the  world  said,  "Is  this  she 

That  was  called  by  the  name  of  Italy ! 

"For  she  traileth  her  splendor  in  the  dust, 
And  her  sword  in  its  scabbard  getteth  rust; 
And  truly  in  her  may  no  man  trust ; 
And  it  shall  only  remembered  be, 
Hereafter,  that  she  was  Italy." 

But  she,  with  her  head  between  her  knees, 
Was  not  moved  for  any  of  these 
Reproaches,  clustering  thick  as  bees; 
Only  she  said,  "Now  let  me  be, 
Since  Rome  is  riven  from  Italy. 

"I  am  but  a  stirrer-up  of  strife, 
Having  no  more  delight  in  life: 
I  am  as  a  jealous  and  unloved  wife; 
And  thrift  and  quiet  are  not  for  me, 
Since  rot's  at  the  heart  of  Italy." 

And  now  the  darkness  had  come  apace, 
Blotting  out  from  before  her  face 


120  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

The  things  she  had  seen  for  a  little  space, 

And  the  hopes  she  had  hoped  when,  young  and  free, 

Praises  were  sung  for  Italy; 

"When  sudden  and  overflowing  light 
Ravished  the  darkness  from  the  night, 
And  made  it  brighter  than  day  is  bright ; 
And  she  hid  her  eyes:     "It  is  not  for  me, 
Fallen,  forsaken  Italy!" 

Then  steadily  to  her  startled  ear 
Answered  a  small  voice,  still  and  clear : 
"Rise,  for  deliverance  is  near ! 
Come  to  thine  own,  if  thou  art  she 
That  is  called  by  the  name  of  Italy." 

She  looked,  and  the  gates  were  opened  wide, 
And  the  keys  of  Peter  were  at  her  side, 
And  the  glory  had  clothed  her  like  a  bride, 
And  the  dome  was  alight.     "Is  this  for  me? 
Ah,  then  once  more  I  am  Italy !" 

As  one  in  a  dream  she  entered,  weak ; 
But  they  kissed  her  on  lip  and  chin  and  cheek ; 
And  all  were  too  glad  for  any  to  speak, — 
Wrapped  in  wonder  that  Rome  should  be 
Safe  in  the  arms  of  Italy. 

"Wait  a  little !"  she  whispers  low • 
"The  tide  will  come  and  the  tide  will  go. 
It  will  bring  us  Liberty  in  its  flow: 
Since  we  all  gathered  together  be, 
The  rest  shall  be  added  to  Italy." 

She  will  put  her  crown  upon  her  head; 
She  will  smooth  the  silk  of  her  bridal  bed; 
She  will  go  out  proudly  charioted. 
Peace  and  plenty  for  her  shall  be, 
Since  Rome  is  given  to  Italy ! 

February,   1871. 


Clyte  Listening  .'121 


CLYTE  LISTENING. 

0  lovely  and  sufficing  !  fair  wonder  among  women  !— 
For,  lo !  the  gates  of  girlhood  have  softly  closed 

behind  thee, — 

Why  art  thou  lingering  here,  in  the  hush  of  rose- 
lined  thickets, 
Where  the  eyes  of  him  that  cometh  shall  surely 

seek  and  find  thee? 
'Mongst  the   honey-hearted  flowers  his   snares   are 

set  the  thickest; 

And  where  thy  feet  are  straying  he  shall  surely 
take  and  bind  thee. 

Like  a  folded  bloom,  tide-taken,  on  smooth  waters, 

to  the  ocean, 

So,  unknowing,  toward  the  hidden,  drifts  thy  vir 
ginal  sweet  being. 

Ah,  my  lily-throated  darling  !  are  thine  eyelids  lotos- 
laden? 
Else  what  is  it  that  thine  eyes  are  so  afraid  of 

seeing? 
Thou    hast   heard   him   but    in    dreams,    thou    hast 

known  him  but  in  visions : 

What  is  it  counsels  loitering  when  instinct  coun 
sels  fleeing; 

Little  ear,  that  should  but  listen  to  the  lowest  of 

sweet  whispers, 
Late  you  seemed  a  perfect  pearl  from  her  amber 

hair  outgleaming : 
Now  you're  like  the  pinkest  sea-shell  of  the  warm, 

blue  Adriatic, 


122  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

And  the  pale  bud  of  her  cheek  hath  caught  your 

brighter  seeming. 
Chin  and  temple  and  low  forehead,  even  red  mouth, 

redder  glowing: 
0  my  blossom  of  all  blossoms !  with  whose  glory 

art  thou  beaming? 

Not  a  myrtle  spray  hath  rustled  in  the  pathway  by 

the  fountain; 
The  tame  dove  hath  not  fluttered  'mid  the  ripe 

grapes  overhead; 
But  her  neck  is  bent  the  way  that  his  distant  feet 

are  coming, 
Though  she   stands   as  still   and   dreamlike   as   a 

phantom  of  the  dead; 
And  the  startled  heart  that  hideth  in  the  white  rose 

of  her  bosom 

Behind  its  lovely  fastness  hath  leapt — hath  heard 
his  tread. 


A  SICILIAN  MIDNIGHT  MADRIGAL. 

In  Sleep's  still  mansion  dost  thou  lie  encloistered, 

Thou  Lily  of  my  heart, 
By  the  cool  dream-waters,  in  the  Hall  of  Shadows, 

Thy  sweetness  hived  apart! 
Rare  bud,  unclose !  shine  out,  my  Star  of  Even ! 

We  are  waiting,  all,  for  thee ; 

For   the  flowers   of   Earth   and  the   gentle   eyes   of 
Heaven 

Are  keeping  watch  with  me !" 

Her  head  is  quiet  on  her  maiden  pillow, 

Her  sweet  eyes  in  eclipse; 

But  she  thrills  in  sleep,  through  all  her  gentle  mem 
bers, 

To  her  vermeil  finger-tips. 


A  Sicilian  Midnight  Madrigal  123 

"The  wind  of  midnight  prints  its  humid  kisses 

Upon  my  lifted  brow, — 
I  pale  with  pleasure,  faint  with  only  thinking 

Shouldst  thou  caress  me — thou! 

0  pain  of  Love !  desire,  that  smites  with  anguish, 

And  deep,  delirious  dole ! 
Stir  in  thy  dainty  nest,  my  bird !  and  listen 
To  the  night-song  of  my  soul !" 

Her  cheek  gleams  redder  through  the  rich  dark  lat 
tice 

Of  her  deep  hair's  unbound  grace, — 
There  is  a  look  of  hearing  far-off  music 

Upon  her  tranced  face. 

"The  Hours  go  reeling,  drunken  with  aroma, — 

I  am  spent  with  odorous  pain ; 
The  citron  petals  that  my  feet  are  crushing 

Fall  in  a  nectarous  rain. 
The  priestess  Night  takes  up  her  mystic  censer 

At  Nature's  moonlit  shrine; 
My  love  consumes  my  life  in  costlier  incense, 

Beloved !  to  burn  at  thine !" 

The  dream-flush  rises  to  her  nun-like  forehead, 
She  is  troubled  in  her  sleep. 

One  slight  hand  stirs,  as  if  it  sought  another 
To  nestle  in  its  keep. 

"The  deep  strong  pulse  of  the  earth  are  timing 
To  the  heavings  of  the  sea; 

But  the  old  concord  of  my  life  is  jangled 
For  the  sweet  sake  of  thee ! 

1  could  spell  out  the  stars'  mysterious  meanings 

By  the  light  of  thy  dear  eyes; 

1  could  tell  thee  all  that  the  flowers  and  winds  are 
plotting, 

My  Rose  of  Paradise ! 


124  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

"Thou  dost  embody  the  unwritten  poem 
Of  this  midsummer's  night, 

0  my  Regina  of  the  Perfect  Presence ! 

My  wonderful  Delight! 

Ah !  to  snow  thee  up  in  a  shower  of  myrtle  blos 
soms, 

Head  violets  on  thy  breast, — 
And  then,  with  kisses,  part  thy  spicy  covert, 

To  say,  'I  love  thee  best  I'  r 

Her  languid  arms  unconsciously  are  lifted 

In  that  caressing  way 
In  which  a  white  dove  ruffles  its  soft  pinions 

On  a  happy  pairing-day. 

"Shall  I  not  move  thee  from  thy  cold,  white  silence 
By  the  strange  strength  of  pain? 

1  will  conquer  all  the  allied  worlds  to  clasp  thee, 

If  thou  love  me  back  again. 
My  life  is  heavy,  with  its  sole,  sweet  secret, — 

Behold !  I  cry  to  thee ! 

Rise    from    thine    Eden-dreams,    sweetheart !     and 
listen— 

Listen!  and  answer  me!" 

Like  a  pale,  pink  bud  flung  on  a  moonlit  snowdrift, 
She  sleeps  in  saintly  white; 

But   her   listening   heart   is    panged    with    helpless 
yearning, 

While  his  sorrow  sweetens  night. 

Sorrento,    1868. 


Mazzini  125 


MAZZINI. 


BURNING  LOW.* 

Is  it  true  that  the  clear  white  beauty 

Of  the  wonderful  soul  that  shone 
Through  his  face  in  a  pallid  splendor 

Like  the  light  from  an  astral  zone, 
Is  clouded  by  disappointment 

And  darkened  by  grievous  doubt? 
It  it  true  that  the  light  in  the  beautiful  lamp 

Is  almost  out? 

.'.-...          ' 
Is  it  true  that  he  hates  the  sunshine, 

Keeping  his  face  to  the  wall? 
That  his  seeing  is  careless  of  any  sight, 

His  hearing  of  any  call; 
That  his  quiet  and  feeble  fingers 

On  the  coverlet  lie  along, 
Like  those  of  a  man  who  has  done  with  thought, 

With  sob  and  with  song? 

Then,  God  that  art  good,  I  pray  thee, 

Roll  back  a  little  for  him  .  . 

The  burial  stone  of  the  sepulchre, 
Where  lieth.so  cold  and  dim 

She  whom  he  longed  for  living, — 
She  whom  he  deplores  as  dead 

*During  the  excesses  of  the  Paris  Commune,  1871. 
1871. 


126  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Because  she  lies  so  starkly  still 
With  bruised  head. 

Show  him  a  little,  I  pray  thee, 

That  she  is  only  asleep. 
So  haply  this  wan,  fond  lover 

Shall  find  the  heart  to  weep ; — 
Seeing  that  she,  though  wounded, 

Shall  amend  her  by  and  by, — 
And,  being  thus  shaken  'twixt  joy  and  sorrow, 

Shall  forget  to  die ! 

II. 
OUT 

A  light  is  out  in  Italy, 

A  golden  tongue  of  purest  flame. 

We  watched  it  burning,  long  and  lone, 
And  every  watcher  knew  its  name, 

And  knew  from  whence  its  fervor  came : 
That  one  rare  light  of  Italy, 

Which  put  self-seeking  souls  to  shame ! 

This  light  which  burnt  for  Italy 

Through  all  the  blackness  of  her  night, 

She  doubted,  once  upon  a  time, 
Because  it  took  away  her  sight. 

She  looked  and  said,  ''There  is  no  light !" 
It  was  thine  eyes,  poor  Italy! 

That  knew  not  dark  apart  from  bright. 

This  flame  which  burnt  for  Italy, 
It  would  not  let  her  haters  sleep. 

They  blew  at  it  with  angry  breath, 
And  only  fed  its  upward  leap, 

And  only  made  it  hot  and  deep. 
Its  burning  showed  us  Italy, 

And  all  the  hopes  she  had  in  keep. 


At  the  Grave  of  Keats  127 

This  light  is  out  in  Italy, 

Her  eyes  shall  seek  for  it  in  vain  ! 

For  her  sweet  sake  it  spent  itself, 
Too  early  flickering  to  its  wane, — 

Too  long  blown  over  by  her  pain. 
Bow  down  and  weep,  0  Italy, 

Thou  canst  not  kindle  it  again ! 

1872. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS. 
I. 

0  rare,  sweet  singer ! 

I've  come  by  lone,  untrodden  ways 
To  linger  near  thy  dust  divine; 

I  have  no  polished  words  of  praise 
To  laud  those  words  of  thine, — 

Not  "writ  in  water,"  no,  dear  heart ! 
Be  comforted,  sweet  poet  soul! 

If  so  be  that  thy  spiritual  part 
Reseek  its  human's  goal. 

II. 

0  rare,  sweet  singer ! 

I've  come  to  find  thee  all  alone. 
The  grass  waves  high  above  my  head, 

As  here  I  crouch  and  kiss  this  stone, 
And  grieve  that  thou  art  dead. 

Couldst  thou  not  wait  a  little  while, 
And  scorn  the  critic's  crabbed  flout, 

And  patient  toil  for  Fortune's  smile, 
And  triumph  over  doubt? 

III. 

0  rare,  sweet  singer! 

And  didst  thou  doubt  thyself,  in  truth. 


128  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Beneath  the  scourge  of  mocking  words, 
That  wrench  the  poet's  heart  like  blows 

Upon  a  zithern's  chords? 

But  no !     I  deem  it  rather  was 

That  fatal  languor  of  the  soul 

Which  comes  of  love  when  given  in  vain, 

And  yet  beyond  control. 

IV. 

0  rare,  sweet  singer ! 

So  nobly  made,  so  richly  dowered, 
Yet  withered  ere  thy  manhod's  prime, — 

The  almond-tree,  leaf  bare,  but  flowered,* 
Without  a  fruitage  time ! 

Ah,  flame-like  life !  how  soon  it  failed, 
How  socn  the  shell  of  pearl  was  broken! 

Ah,  silver  tongue !  that,  dying,  wailed, 
Yet  left  its  love  unspoken ! 

V. 

0  rare,  sweet  singer ! 

I'm  glad  they've  left  thee  all  alone ; 
For  I  have  made  this  pilgrimage 

Unto  thy  lone  memorial  stone 
Vague  yearnings  to  assuage. 

Ah,  canst  thou  see  these  tears  that  fall? 
Ah,  canst  thou  hear  this  passionate  sigh? 

Thy  sorrows  all  my  thoughts  inthrall, — 

1  mourn  thy  destiny. 

VI. 

O  rare,  sweet  singer ! 

And  must  I  leave  thee  all  alone 
In  this  Italian  solitude? 

The  breath  of  flowers,  the  zephyr's  moan, 

*The  tree  known  as  the  Flowering  Almond,  which  bears  beau 
tiful  pink   flowers   before  its   leaves  appear,   but  no   fruit. 


The  New- World  Exile  in   Italy       129 

Would  suit  thy  delicate  mood. 

My  wishes  half  conjure  a  face 
Of  beauty,  spiritual  and  frail, 

Fit  dweller  of  this  charmed  place, 
To  which  I  murmur,  "Vale!" 

Rome,   May,   1865. 


THE  NEW-WORLD  EXILE  IN  ITALY. 

The  most  delicious  skies  that  zone  the  earth 
Are  bluely  burning  into  deeper  night; 

And  those  refulgent  stars  that  haunt  the  South 
Are  flashing  into  sight. 

The  sea  before  me,  and  the  hills  behind,— 

The  vineyards  in  the  shadow  at  my  feet : 
The  wind  has  been  among  the  myrtle-buds, 

And  with  their  breath  is  sweet. 
W- 
There  is  a  golden  gleam  among  the  green, — 

The  pale  gold  gleam  of  ripening  Southern  fruit : 
The  sound  of  love-birds,  bickering  in  their  nests, 

Blends  with  a  far-off  lute. 

And  down  the  rocky,  jasmine-latticed  path, 
That  leadeth  to  the  orange  avenue, 

Comes  with  free  steps  a  stately,  brown-faced  girl, 
In  peasant  kirtle  blue. 

And  the  red  token  of  the  Phrygian  cap 
Upon  some  passing  fisher's  classic  head — 

The  graceful  symbol  of  lost  Liberty, 
That  serves  him  in  her  stead — 

Reminds  me  that  the  place  whereon  I  stand 
Is  the  world's  Eden  of  ideal  delight, 


130  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Where  slip  away  the  years  on  velvet  feet, 
Unhurt  by  frostful  blight. 

0  clime  of  Love  and  land  of  wonderment, 
Where  the  sun  ripeneth  the  blood  to  fire ! 

Compared  to  thine,  a  cold  land's  life  is  but 
An  underfed  desire. 

Here  the  cool  silence  of  untroubled  rest, 

Or  unrest  sweeter,  laps  the  odorous  nights ; 

And  all  thy  days  are  full  of  sun  and  song, 
And  set  with  pleasant  sights. 

I,  a  pale  shadow,  haunting  these  delights, 
Not  for  the  love  of  Beauty  do  I  keep 

My  tristful  watch,  but  that  my  heart  awakes. 
And  will  not  let  me  sleep. 

There  is  a  fever  burning  in  my  blood, 

There  is  a  tumult  throbbing  in  my  brain; 

The  loveliness  of  this  Italian  night 
Awakes  but  passionate  pain. 

0  Italy !  thou  dear  heart's  Paradise, 

That  takest  the  exile  to  thy  cradling  arms! 
Forgive  me  if  I  cannot  all  forget 
My  sorrow  in  thy  charms. 

Thou  art  not  dearer  than  mine  own  dear  land, 
Albeit  she  proved  a  harsher  nurse  to  me ; 

And  now  that  I  am  banished  from  her  shores, 
She  hath  forgotten  me. 

1  gave  her  all, — I  had  not  much  to  give ; 

I  laid  my  youth's  endeavor  at  her  shrine, 
Forgot  the  ties  of  blood,  the  love  of  friends, 
To  make  her  sorrows  mine. 


The  New- World  Exile  in  Italy  131 

I  watched  with  her  throughout  her  trial-night 
And  never  faltered  'mid  its  deepest  dark: 

Not  any  grief  that  paled  her  wasted  face 
But  touched  me  with  its  mark. 

What  did  I  ask  of  her?     To  take  a  gift. 

She  let  it  fall  from  out  her  listless  hand ; 
She  did  not  want  the  heart,  the  will,  the  brain, 

That  waited  her  c  mmand. 

I  was  not  counted  worthy  in  her  sight; 

Not  all  my  love  could  buy  a  mom  nt's  thought; 
And  at  her  feet  neglected  fell  the  gift 

At  which  my  youth  had  wrought. 

I  know  it  was  not  worthy  her  desert, — 

I  know  the  giver  lacked  the  master's  skill ; 

The  hasty  hand  was  all  too  young  to  do 
The  eager  worker's  will. 

And  yet  one  smile  would  not  have  cost  her  dear, 
Where  so  much  love  and  fealty  plead  for  grace: 

She  gave  it  not ;  my  young  ambition  found 
No  favor  in  her  face. 

So,  when  her  woe  was  spent,  and  she  put  on 
The  festal  garments  of  her  joy  again, 

I  left  her,  for  she  had  no  need  of  me 
When  she  was  past  her  pain. 

For  she  hath  come  again  to  summer  hours, 
And  hath,  enow  of  flatterers  and  friends; 

And  they  who  left  her  in  h^r  perilous  shifts 
Haste  now  to  make  amends. 

Let  her  forget  me !    But,  0,  let  her  not 

Forget  what  hero-blood  endows  her  earth, 

And  not  forego  the  charter  hardly  earned, 
For  things  of  little  worth ! 


132  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

For  me,  I  waste  beneath  the  weary  load 
Of  withering  hopes  and  unfulfilled  desires; 

Ambitions,  aspirations,  memories, — all 
Are  self-consuming  fires. 

But  the  slow  moon  comes  up  from  out  the  sea, 
Languid  and  large  and  stately  in  her  place, 

And  shames  this  weakliness  she  sees  in  me 
By  her  unmoved  face ! 

Island  of  Ischia,  July,  1866. 


A  LOVE-SONG  OF  SORRENTO. 

Come  away  to  the  shade  of  the  citron  grove, 

Carina ! 
I  hear  the  voice  of  the  brooding  dove, 

Carina ! 

Her  soft  throat  swells  as  she  tells  her  love 
To  her  tender  mate  in  the  myrtle  above, 
And  their  tremulous  pinions  responsive  move, 

Cara !    Carina ! 

Ah!  Love  is  sweet  as  the  spring  is  sweet, 

Carina ! 
For  me  thou  makest  the  spring  complete, 

Carina ! 

The  young  wind  bloweth  unto  thy  feet 
A  drift  of  flowers  thy  steps  to  meet, 
And  the  wounded  blossoms  perfume  the  heat, 

Cara !    Carina ! 

They  are  tokens  for  only  a  bride  to  wear, 

Carina ! 
Yet  I  would  crown  thee  if  I  might  dare, 

Carina ! 
Ah !  shy  and  sweet  and  tender  and  rare, 


A  Love-Song  of  Sorrento  133 

Put  away  from  thine  eyes  thy  shining  hair. 
Nay,  now,  have  I  startled  thee  unaware? 
Cara !    Carina ! 

My  heart  is  lying  across  thy  way, 

Carina ! 

As  thou  crushest  the  flowers,  wilt  thou  crush  it, — 
say, 

Carina? 

Or,  sadder  yet,  wilt  thou  let  it  stay 
Where  it  is  lying,  well  away, 
All  on  this  pleasant  morning  in  May? 

Cara !    Carina ! 

My  beautiful  flower  of  flowers !     No, 

Carina ! 
•Thou  wilt  not  scorn  it  nor  crush  it  so, 

Carina ! 

One  true  little  word  before  we  go ; 
Close, — nestle  close, — and  whisper  low, — 
Low  while  the  faint  south  breezes  blow, 

Cara !    Carina ! 

Thou'lt  wear  nothing  but  white  when  we  are  wed, 

Carina ! 
Thou'lt  have  orange-blossoms  about  thy  head, 

Carina ! 

The  maidens  shall  string  them  on  silver  thread; 
On  a  rose-leaf  carpet  thou  shalt  tread, 
While  the  bride-blush  maketh  thy  beauty  red, 

Cara !    Carina ! 

Sorrento,    1868. 


134  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 


TO  HIM  WHOSE  NAME   SIGNIFIES  A 
BLESSING.* 

0  King !  because  thou  art  an  honest  man,** 
And  worthily  dost  wear  Castruccio's  sword, 

1  count  thee  with  my  heroes,  spite  of  all 
The  vicious  tongues  that  so  despoil  thy  fame, 
Despite  the  eyes  that  only  see  thy  spots; 

Yet  need  is  that  the  ground-work  must  be  bright, 

Or  else  they  could  not  see  the  spots  so  clearly! 

And  need  is  that  the  spots  be  rare  exceptions, 

Or  else  they  could  not  so  well  counted  be ! 

And  others  may — but — I — I  never  can 

Forget  thou  art  the  first  Italian  king 

That  hath  not  sold  his  people's  liberty, 

Or  given  it  over  to  some  tyrant  pope, 

Or  let  it  slip  from  out  a  careless  keep. 

Let  others,  if  they  will,  forget  these  things ; 

But  I  must  hold  them  in  my  memory, 

And  bless  thee  for  them,  for  Italia's  sake ! 


THREE   SYMBOLS. 

They  bore  to  an  island  in  the  sea 

One,  an  exile  lone, 
Who  made  and  spake  these  parables  three 

When  his  hope  had  flown : 

A  wind-harp  swelled  into  perfect  song 
'Neath  Zephyrs'  soft  touch; 

"Victor   Emanuel;    God   with   us  in  victory. 
**"!!   re   galant'uomo,"   the   people   call   him. 


Three  Symbols  135 

But  Boreas  did  it  a  grievous  wrong, 

For  he  smote  it  too  much. 
He  smote  it  so  rudely,  its  delicate  chords 

Wailed  in  eloquent  pain, 
Saying  in  plaintive  and  mystical  words, 

We  accord  not  again ! 

A  lark  sprang  up  from  the  dewy  corn 

With  an  arching  throat, 
Greeting  the  light  of  the  blushing  morn 

With  a  proud,  sweet  note. 
With  his  eye  on  the  sun  and  his  heart  in  his  song, 

He  parted  the  air; 

"We  shall  reach  it,"  he  said,  "though  the  way  be 
long, 

But  his  fate  met  him  there ! 

The  nightingale  sat  'mid  the  milk-white  blooms 

With  her  breast  on  the  thorn, 
Making  melodious  the  fragrant  glooms 

Till  the  day  should  be  born. 
In  a  rapture  of  joy  and  pain 

Swelled  the  faithful  breast; 
But  the  thorn  went  too  deep  to  come  out  again, 

Thus  exultingly  pressed ! 

0  ravished  lyre !  and  0  wounded  wing ! 

And  O  breathless  throat! 
Is  it  worthy — the  shattered  life  I  bring — 

To  follow  your  rote? 
Sweet  mother  Italy!    Give  me  rest! 

For  I  sing  no  more ; 
The  thorn  has  pierced  me  too  deep  in  the  breast, 

And  my  mounting  is  o'er. 
Capri,  August  12,  1867. 


136  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 


LOVER'S  LEAVES. 


TO  MY  RIGHTFUL  READERS. 

Venturous  boy  and  curious  girl, 
Glancing  shyly  through  the  roses, 

Each  at  other's  conscious  face, 
While  you  tie  your  April  posies,— 

You  are  looking  out  for  Love, 

Having  nothing  else  to  do ; 
While  you  wait  for  him  to  come, 

Read  what  here  is  writ  for  you! 

Ye,  whose  feet  at  last  have  found 

Pathways  lined  with  Passion  Flowers, 

And  whose  hearts  are  in  revolt 
At  the  shortness  of  the  hours, — 

See,  as  in  a  mirror  here, 

Much  of  what  you  think  and  do. 

Lovers'  lives  are  all  akin ; 

Therefore  this  is  writ  for  you! 

You,  who  know  so  well  the  taste 

Of  the  bitter,  after  sweet ; 
And  who  time  no  more  your  steps 

To  the  steps  of  other  feet,— 

Memory,  not  less  sweet  than  sad, 
Turns  the  page  without  ado ; 

You  have  time  enough  to  read 
What  is  written  here  for  you! 


A  Rhyme  of  the  Maple-Tree  137 


A  RHYME   OF  THE  MAPLE-TREE. 

A  brown-winged  bird  is  singing 
High  up  in  the  maple-tree; 
Out  loud,  with  a  pretty  bravery, 

To  his  sole  self  singeth  he, 
While  the  reddened  leaves  are  falling 

Fast  down  from  the  maple-tree. 

A  brown-haired  girl  is  sitting 

Now  under  the  maple-tree ; 
In  a  voice  like  smitten  silver 

To  her  sole  self  plaineth  she, 
And  her  tears  are  falling,  falling, 

Like  the  leaves  from  the  maple-tree. 

The  sunshine  comes  to  kiss  her 

All  under  the  maple-tree. 
Her  cheeks  are  like  wood  roses; 

She's  fair  enough  for  three, 
But  she  has  no  heart  to  listen 

To  the  bird  in  the  maple-tree. 

For  she  has  shamed  her  sweetheart 

All  under  the  maple-tree, 
"And  there  is  not  one  other 

Who  truly  loveth  me  ! 
We  shall  sit  no  more  together 

Low  under  this  maple-tree!" 

He  listens  close  behind  her 

All  under  the  maple-tree. 
He's  jealous  of  the  sunshine, 

He  will  not  let  her  be ; 


138  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

On  two  the  leaves  are  falling 
Fast  from  the  maple-tree. 

She's  shy,  but  he  is  master 
All  under  the  maple-tree. 

First  tears,  then  smiles  and  kisses; 
In  sooth,  'tis  fine  to  see ! 

And  her  heart  goes  singing,  singing, 
With  the  bird  in  the  maple-tree. 

1871. 


TROTH-PLIGHT. 

At  first  I  thought  God  would  have  let  me 

Bring  thee  the  freshness  of  my  day; 
So,  haply,  having  earlier  met  me, 

I  might  have  gladdened  more  thy  way ! 
So  would  our  lives  have  grown  together, 
Sharing  in  common  every  weather; 
Ah !  then  I  did  not  know  that  we  must  wait, — 
Must  wait ! 

And  what  impulsive  songs  I  sung  thee 

With  morning's  flush  upon  my  brow! 
What  kisses  from  my  mouth  I  flung  thee, — 
My  lips  are  pale  and  pensive  now ! 
Till  I  said,  "Must  I  call  forever? 
And  will  he  answer  never,  never?" 
It  was  so  hard  to  learn  that  I  must  wait, — 
Must  wait! 

In  the  dark  night  my  pride  was  broken ; 

I  lay  down  mutely  on  my  face, 
And  tears  revealed  what  was  not  spoken, — 

I  found  thee  not  in  any  place ! 

My  soul  was  full  of  grievous  wonder, 


Troth-Plight  1H!) 

My  heart-strings  almost  swelled  asunder ; 
I  thought  that  I  could  die,  but  could  not  wait,— 
Not  wait ! 

Then  other  hands  were  held  out  to  me, 

And  others  whispered,  "I  am  he !" 
And  others  came  to  woo  me ; 

And  yet  thy  face  I  could  not  see. 

Then  said  I,  "I  shall  never  meet  him; 
God  wills  that  I  should  never  greet  him." 
And  for  a  little  I  forgot  to  wait, — 
To  wait! 

But  swift  and  bitter  came  repayment, — 
The  fruit  hung  withered  on  the  tree, — 
And  I  must  come  in  spotted  raiment, 
A  traitor  to  my  heart  and  thee. 
I  am  not  worthy  thy  caressing, 
For  I  have  forfeited  such  blessing, 
Canst  thou  forgive  me  that  I  could  not  wait, — 
Not  wait? 

Thou  wilt, — since  I  have  found  no  flavor 

In  all  the  gifts  that  others  gave ; 
Their  richness  but  provoked  disfavor; 
And  if  I  die  upon  thy  grave, 

Know,  that  amid  my  faithless  trifling 
I  had  no  power  my  heart  for  stifling. 
Let  me  yet  prove  to  thee  I  can  wait, — 
Can  wait ! 

Ah !  let  no  comelier  form  inthrall  thee 

By  reason  of  its  rarer  grace. 
Canst  thou  not  hear  my  spirit  call  thee? 
Hast  thou  no  visions  of  my  face? 

Dost  never  passionate  want  come  o'er  thee? 
Lookest  never  wistfully  before  thee, 
To  where  I  stand  within  the  vail  and  wait; 
Then  wait! 

1870. 


140  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 


ONE  KISS  BEFORE  WE  PART. 

One  kiss  before  we  part ! 

But  one,  for  love's  sweet  sake ! 
To  sweeten,  for  my  heart, 

The  pain  of  this  mistake. 
Your  hand  is  in  my  own, 

But  your  head  is  turned  away; 
For  the  first  time  and  the  last, 

One  little  kiss,  I  pray ! 

Nay,  though  you  love  me  not, 

And  stab  me,  saying  "Friend !" 
Nay,  though  I  be  forgot, 

Before  a  fortnight's  end ; 
Still,  let  me  kiss  the  lips 

That  traitors  are  to  love, 
What !  nothing  but  your  hand, 

And  that  within  its  glove? 

Because  the  Past  was  sweet, 

Because  you  are  so  dear, 
Because  no  mere  we  meet 

In  any  future  year, — 
Be  kind,  and  make  me  glad, 

Just  for  a  moment's  space. 
Think !  I  shall  be  so  sad, 

And  never  see  your  face ! 

One  kiss  before  we  part ! 

And  so  you  nothing  meant? 
Though  I  be  gone,  your  heart 

Will  keep  its  old  content, 


Entre  Nous  141 


Nay,  not  your  cheek, — your  lips; 

I  claim  them  as  my  right — 
Small  guerdon  for  great  love — - 

Before  we  say  good  night. 

Ah  !  shy,  unlocking  eyes  ! 

Not  true,  though  blue  and  rare, 
How  dare  you  feign  surprise 

To  know  I  hold  you  dear? 
What  coyness  will  not  yield, 

Yet  boldness,  sure,  may  take ; 
Well,  then ;  if  not  for  Love's, 

One  kiss  for  Friendship's  sake ! 

One  kiss  before  we  part ! 

One  little  kiss,  my  dear ! 
One  kiss — to  help  my  heart 

Its  utter  loss  to  bear. 
One  kiss — to  check  the  tears 

My  manhood  scarce  can  stay ; 
Or  thus— I  make  it  "Yes!" 

While  you  are  saying  "Nay!" 

1869. 


ENTRE  NOUS. 

As  we  two  slowly  walked  that  night, 

Silence  fell  on  us,  as  of  fear; 
I  was  afraid  to  face  the  light, 

Lest  you  should  see  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 

You  drew  my  arm  against  your  heart, 
So  close  I  could  feel  it  beating  near- 

You  were  brave  enough  for  a  lover's  part, — 
You  were  so  sure  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 


142  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Then  you  murmured  a  word  or  two, 

And  tenderly  stooped  your  listening  ear; 

For  you  thought  that  all  that  you  had  to  do 
Was  to  hear  me  say  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 

But,  though  your  face  was  so  close  to  mine 

That  you  touched  my  cheek  with  your  chestnut 
hair, 

I  wouldn't  my  lips  to  yours  resign; 

And  yet — loved  you, — I  loved  you,  dear. 

And  all  at  once  you  were  cold  and  pale, 
Because  you  thought  that  I  did  not  care ; 

I  cried  a  little  behind  my  veil, — 

But  that  was  because  I  loved  you,  dear. 

And  so  you  thought  'twas  a  drop  of  rain 

That  splashed  your  hand?    But  'twas  a  tear; 

For  then  you  said  you'd  never  again 
Ask  me  to  say  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 

Well!  I  will  tell,— if  you'll  listen  now. 

I  thought  of  the  words  you  said  last  year; 
How  we  girls  weren't  coy  enough,  and  how 

There  were  half  a  dozen  that  loved  you,  dear. 

And  I  was  afraid  that  you  held  me  light, 
And  an  imp  at  my  shoulder  said,  "Beware ! 

He's  just  in  a  wooing  mood  tonight." 
So  I  wouldn't  say  that  I  loved  you,  dear. 

Not  though  I  thought  you  the  Man  of  men, 

Chief  est  of  heroes,  brave  and  rare ! 
Not  though  I  never  shall  love  again 

Any  man  as  I  loved  you,  dear. 

I  have  suffered,  and  so  have  you ; 

And  tonight,  if  you  were  but  standing  here, 


Refusal  143 

I'd  make  you  an  answer  straight  and  true, 
If  you  ask  me  again  if  I  loved  you,  dear. 

1870. 


REFUSAL. 

The  dew  is  off  of  the  full-blown  rose, 

And  the  wind  will  flout  it  before  he  goes; 

And  the  down  is  brushed  from  the  yellow  peach ; 

And  the  purplest  grapes  are  out  of  reach, — 

And  I  am  as  sad  as  sad  can  be 

That  one  sweet  thing  is  no  more  for  me ! 

Dear,  my  friend !   it  is  none  of  these ! 
For  after  the  wind  will  come  the  bees; 
And  the  peach  that  ripens  toward  the  South 
Is  just  as  sweet  for  an  eager  mouth, — 
But  I  am  as  sad  as  sad  can  be, 
For  a  sweeter  thing  is  no  more  for  me ! 

Shall  I  pluck  for  you  the  bloomy  grapes, 

Or  the  emerald  figs  of  luscious  shapes? 

No !  you  but  ask  to  kiss  my  hand — 

Only  to  love  me  where  I  stand! 

And  I  am  as  sad  as  sad  can  be 

That  these  sweet  things  are  not  for  me ! 

Why  will  you  make  me  say  it  twice? 

Leave  my  life  to  its  own  device. 

Ah !  you  say  that  my  hand  is  cold ; 

I  say  that  my  heart  is  numb  and  old — 

I  say,  I  am  sad  as  sad  can  be 

That  Love,  sweet  Love !  is  no  more  for  me ! 

But  I  ? — I  would  love  you  if  I  could ! 
I  would  nestle  to  you  in  tender  mood ; 


144  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

I  am  so  weary  of  living  alone, 

I  needs  must  make  this  piteous  moan. 

My  soul  is  famished  so  utterly 

For  the  one  sweet  thing  that  is  lost  to  me ! 

You  should  have  come  in  the  Long  Ago, 

Before  my  heart  went  under  the  snow ; 

You  should  have  come  while  the  daisies  bloomed, 

Ere  the  sweet  blush-roses  were  all  entombed, — 

Before  I  was  sad  as  sad  could  be, 

And  Love,  sweet  Love !  was  the  world  to  me ! 

Now,  for  the  good  I  should  receive 

I  have  so  little  left  to  give ! 

I  am  ashamed  that  your  love  should  lie 

Low  at  the  feet  of  such  as  I, — 

Let  me  be  sad  as  sad  can  be 

That  this  sweet  thing  is  not  for  me ! 

Kiss  me  but  once  upon  the  brow ! 

Promise  to  be  my  friend  from  now ! 

Pity  me  that  I  cannot  love ; 

Pity  me,  all  the  world  above — 

Leave  me,  as  sad  as  sad  can  be, 

For  the  cne  sweet  thing  that  is  lost  to  m? ! 

1870. 


TWO  SONGS  OF  ONE  SINGER. 

I. 
COULEUR  DE  ROSE. 

When  he  told  me  that  he  loved  me, 
'Twas  in  the  flowery  time  of  May; 

I  put  roses  in  my  ringlets, 
And  went  singing  all  the  day, 


Two  Song-s  of  One  Singer  145 

When  he  told  me  that  he  loved  nit 
In  the  pleasant  month  of  May. 

Still  he  told  me  that  he  loved  me 

In  the  summer  time  of  June, 
When  the  roses  blushed  the  redder, 

And  the  birds  were  all  in  tune; 
And  I  blushed,  because  he  loved  me, 

Redder  than  the  rose  of  June ! 

Yes,  because  he  loved  me 

I  went  singing  with  the  birds. 
All  the  day  I  listened  to  him, 

In  my  dreams  I  heard  his  words ; 
Dreaming  nightly  that  he  loved  me, 

I  was  blither  than  the  birds ! 

But  I  did  not  know  I  loved  him 

Till  I  found  one  summer  day 
That  in  telling  how  he  loved  me 
He  had  wiled  my  heart  away, — 

Just  by  saying  how  he  loved  me 

Through  the  long,  bright  summer  day. 

Still  he  told  me  that  he  loved  me 

When  the  roses,  fading,  fell, 
And  the  birds  had  all  forgotten 

That  sweet  song  I'd  learned  too  well. 
For  I  love  him,  and  he  loves  me, 

More  than  any  words  can  tell. 

II. 
HERS  OR  MINE? 

My  sweetheart's  eyes,  they're  bonny  and  blue, 

Ah  me ! 
But  he's  slow  to  wed  who  was  swift  to  woo, 

Ah  me ! 


146  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Am  I  less  tender,  or  is  he  less  true? 
Ah  me ! 

Down  in  the  valley,  a  year  ago, 

Ah  me ! 
He  plucked  me  a  lily  as  fresh  as  snow, 

Ah  me ! 
And  he  kissed  me  as  never  he'd  let  me  go. 

But  the  lily  leaves  fell  out  of  my  hair, 

Ah  me ! 
Or  even  his  hand  has  fastened  it  there, 

Ah  me! 
And  a  brown  bird  twittered  "Beware  !  beware  !" 

We  stood  together  again  today, 

Ah  me ! 
Just  where  he  kissed  into  Yes  my  Nay, 

Ah  me! 
He  hung  his  head  and  had  naught  to  say. 

Mignon's  eyes  have  a  sunny  shine, 

Ah  me! 
And  Mignon's  cheeks  are  fresher  than  mine, 

Ah  me ! 
For  I  get  paler  because  I  pine. 

The  dove  has  forgotten  his  last-year's  nest, 

Ah  me ! 
And  it's  his  new  love  that  he  loves  the  best, 

Ah  me ! 
My  heart  lies  like  a  stone  in  my  breast, 

1869. 


Double  Reds  147 


DOUBLE   REDS. 

She  had  one  within  her  hair 
And  another  on  her  breast. 

We  two  saw  the  moon  come  up, 
And  the  sun  go  down  the  west. 

Pale,  soft  ripples,  blown  about 
The  young  beauty  of  her  head, 

And  their  brownness  lighted  up 
By  one  spicy  Double  Red ! 

She  looked  off  across  the  sea. 

"Sweets  unto  the  sweet!"  I  said; 
All  the  longing  of  my  looks 

Bent  upon  the  Double  Red. 

That  was  in  her  hair,  you  know; 

Kissing  one,  I  kissed  the  twain. 
She  looked  up  into  my  face, 

Half  in  pleasure,  half  in  pain. 

I  had  only  kissed  a  flower 
Lying  loosely  in  her  hair ; 

I  had  only  smiled,  and  said 
It  was  fit  for  her  to  wear! 

But  her  hand  was  in  my  hand, — 
One  was  flame,  the  other  snow, — 

And  my  eyes  possessed  her  eyes, 
With  a  "Yes"  supplanting  "No!" 

Ah !  I  had  not  meant  to  ask ; 
I  had  told  myself  to  wait. 


148  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

But  you  know  what  falls  when  two 
Walk  upon  the  beach  so  late. 

"No !  you  shall  not  run  away  !— 
Tender,  trembling  little  thing ! 

(Am  I  worthy  to  detain 
This  white  bird  upon  the  wing?)" 

But  the  flower  upon  her  breast 
Drowned  me  in  its  deep  perfume, 

Drew  me  to  the  velvet  glow 
Of  its  Oriental  bloom. 

"Let  us  go  !"  I  heard  her  say 

'Twixt  the  clock-strokes  telling  nine; 

But  the  flower  dropped  from  her  breast, 
Like  a  message,  into  mine ! 

"Match  for  me  the  flower,  Sweet ! 

Give  the  other  from  your  hair!" 
I  had  meant  to  ask  no  more ; 

But  her  face  was  over-fair. 

"Nay!  I  will  have  all  or  none!" 
'Twixt  my  hands  I  took  her  head; 

Sweetest  of  the  three  her  mouth's 
Darling,  dainty  Double  Red ! 

1870. 


QUITS. 

I  am  the  victor,  Philip  May ! 

You  knew  it  the  moment  we  met  tonight. 
You  had  not  looked  for  such  easy  grace, 

For  our  parting  left  me  crushed  and  white. 
My  lips  were  curved  in  a  quiet  smile ; 

You  had  seen  them  stiffen  with  sudden  pain. 


Quits  149 

Did  you  think,  as  you  saarched  my  eyes  the  while, 
Of  the  times  they  looked  for  you  in  vain! 

Did  they  tell  you  the  story  you  hoped  to  readV 
The  tale  of  a  lingering  love  for  you; 

Why  did  you  quail  and  falter  so 

'Neath  the  level  ray  of  your  frozen  blue? 

Why  did  you  drop  your  faultless  voice 

•     To  the  tender  tone  of  the  olden  strain? 

You  cannot  recall  the  early  trust 

Whose  delicate  life  by  scorn  was  slain! 

You're  foiled  for  once,  my  King  of  Hearts ! 

Mine  was  too  high  to  break  for  you. 
I  might  have  proved  you  long  and  well, 

Had  I  proved  you  noble  and  good  and  true. 
But  when  you  saw  that  the  thing  I  loved 

Was  not  you,  but  my  soul's  Ideal, — • 
When  I  knew  you  selfish  and  hard  and  cold, — 

I  had  no  fealty  for  the  Real. 

You  are  not  my  master  any  more ! 

Your  thrall  of  the  olden  time  is  free. 
The  broken  wing  of  the  bird  is  healed, 

And  I  scorn  your  pliant  tongue  and  knee. 
Have  you  forgotten  your  spoken  words  f 

I  shall  remember  them  till  I  die ; 
My  heart  went  down  in  the  dust  to  you, 

And  low  in  the  dust  you  let  it  lie ! 

You  have  mistaken  me  all  the  while ; 

I  do  not  miss  you  nor  want  you  now ! 
The  lesson  you  taught  me  is  potent  yet, 

Though  it  left  no  line  on  my  open  brow. 
Clever  player,  of  cunning  touch, 

The  chords  are  jangled  and  will  not  chime ! 
Well,  are  the  throbs  of  a  tortured  heart 

Set  to  the  flow  of  a  pleasant  rhyme  ? 


150  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

But  God,  he  knows  that  I  had  no  hope 

Ever  to  lure  you  back  again; 
And  the  wish  went  out  with  the  Long  Ago, 

And  never  can  come  to  me  again. 
How  dared  you  dream  you  were  dear  to  me, 

Or  speak  of  things  that  you  should  forget? 
I  blush  to  think  a  kiss  of  yours 

Ever  upon  my  mouth  was  set! 

The  love  I  bore  you,  Philip  May, 

Near  killed  me  ere  it  died; 
But  one  dark  night  the  stubborn  thing 

Was  sternly  stifled  and  pushed  aside ; 
And  the  arms  of  a  true  love  took  in  me, ' 

Whom   you   left   to   groan   at   your   heart's   shut 

door; 
I'm  clothed  about  with  his  tenderness, 

And  wrapped  from  loneness  evermore ! 


LOVE  ENTANGLED. 

They  were  loitering  along 
'Neath  a  roof  of  evergreen, 

Dropping  now  and  then  a  word, 
With  long  set  pauses  between. 

"Here  are  violets !"  and  she  stooped 
For  the  little  purple  flower. 

"O,  how  many!     I  could  pluck 
Double  handfuls  in  an  hour!" 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  one, 
Only  asking  with  his  eyes; 

And  she  flushed  to  find  her  own 
All  too  ready  with  replies. 


Love  Entangled  151 

So  she  lightly  turned  aside, 

"Here  is  love  entangled  too !" 
"Well  is  that,"  he  lightly  asked, 

"Something  very  rare  and  new ;" 

"He  is  trifling !"  and  the  girl 
Held  at  once  her  heart  in  thrall. 

"He  shall  see  I  will  not  come, 
Fetch  and  carry  at  his  call !" 

When  he,  pressing  nearer,  said, 
"Were  you  ever  tangled  in  it?'*' 

"No,  I  think  not, — "Wintergreen ! 
I  can  get  in  a  minute." 

In  that  little  minute's  space 

He  revoked  his  little  plan. 
"  'Tisn't  me,"  he  sourly  said ; 

"Likely  'tis  some  other  man !" 

Walking  home  at  set  of  sun, 

What  was  this  had  come  between? 

Each  one  sad  and  silent  thought 
Of  the  thing  that  might  have  been. 

When  he  went  away  she  laid 

The  young  violets  aside, 
But  the  love  entangled  threw 

From  the  window,  open  wide. 

Ah !  the  flower  she  would  not  keep 
Was  the  emblem  of  the  thing! 

Love  entangled  mostly  thrives 
In  the  lovers'  early  spring ! 

1872. 


152  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 


THE  DOOR  BETWEEN. 

I  know  that  it  was  mine  own  hand  that  shut  it 
And  locked  it, — but  I  threw  away  the  key, 

And  so  the  door  can  nevermore  be  opened 
That  stands  so  grimly  betwixt  you  and  me. 

Though  sometimes  I  have  fancied  that  I  heard  you 
Pleading  and  knocking  on  the  other  side, 

I  would  not  answer,  for  my  heart  was  sullen, 
And  made  so  cruel  by  my  wounded  pride. 

And  there  are  hours  when  I  have  knelt  beside  it, 
Anigh  to  death  for  just  one  word  from  you ; 

And  you,  in  turn,  were  proud  and  would  not 

answer 
For  anything  that  I  could  say  or  do. 

And  sometimes  when  I  lie  'twixt  sleep  and  waking, 
I  think  the  door  swings  back  to  let  you  in ; 

But  when  I  spring  to  give  you  eager  welcome, 
I  only  meet  the  ghost  of  What  has  Been ! 

And  often  in  my  sleep  my  heart  is  asking, 
"Where  is  the  key?    Alas!  where  is  the  key?" 

And  I  arise  and  vainly  try  to  open 

The  closed  door  that  is  'twixt  you  and  me ! 

1871. 


AFRAID. 

After  singing,  silence ;  after  roses,  thorns ; 
All  the  blackest  midnights  built  o'er  golden  morns 
After  flowering,  fading ;  bitter  after  sweet ; 
Yellow,  withered  stubble,  after  waving  wheat. 


Et  Tu?  153 

After  green,  the  dropping  of  the  shrivelled  leaf, 
Like  the  sudden  lopping  of  some  dear  belief ; 
After  gurgling  waters,  dry,  unsightly  beds ; 
After  exultation,  lowly-hanging  heads. 

So  I  shrink  and  shiver  at  your  proffered  kiss, 
Knowing  pain  must  follow  on  the  heel  of  bliss ; 
Knowing  loss  must  find  me  sleeping  on  your  breast : 
Leave  me  while  you  love  me, — this  is  surely  best ! 

Like  the  bulshless  flower  left  upon  its  stem, 
Sweetening  the  thickness  of  the  forest's  hem; 
Like  a  hidden  fountain,  never  touched  of  lips; 
Like  an  unknown  ocean,  never  sailed  by  ships,— 

Thus  I  shall  be  fairer  to  your  untried  thought, 
Than  if  all  my  living  into  yours  were  wrought. 
Hearts'  dreams  are  the  sweetest  in  a  lonely  nest: 
Leave  me  while  you  love  me, — this  is  surely  best! 

1871. 


ET  TU? 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  these  years? 

Must  we  be  strangers  now,  we  two ; 
Find  you  such  sweetness  in  my  tears, 

That  you  should  choose  this  thing  to  do? 
That  you  should  smite  me  unawares, 

And  hate  me  when  you  find  me  true, — 
Is  this  the  fruit  your  loving  bears? 

I  had  not  thought  so  ill  of  you ! 

Ah !  looking  deep  into  your  eyes, 

I  thought  I  read  you  through  and  through ! 
Ah !  listening  to  your  stanch  replies, 

How  confidence  and  fealty  grew! 


154  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Remembering  'tis  your  hand  that  tries 
Our  ancient  compact  to  undo, 

My  blood  is  frozen  with  surprise, — 
I  had  not  thought  so  ill  of  you ! 

Perhaps  a  prouder  heart  than  mine 

Might  lift  a  face  of  brighter  hue, 
Perhaps  a  bitterer  heart  than  mine 

Might  wish  some  evil  fate  to  you, 
Perhaps  a  harder  heart  than  mine 

By  word  or  deed  might  make  you  rue ; 
But  I  shall  leave  you  this  one  sign : 

I  had  not  thought  so  ill  of  you ! 

1872. 


YOU  AND  I! 

We  have  plighted  troth  forever, — 

You  and  I! 
We  have  sworn  no  fate  shall  sever, — 

You  and  I! 

Young  and  poor, — uncaring  whether 
Life  bring  storm  and  sunny  weather, 
So  we  only  stand  together, — 

You  and  I! 

We've  no  hoard  of  crested  greatness, — 

You  and  I ! 
Naught  of  Wealth's  nor  Pride's  elateness,- 

You  and  I ! 

Spirits  fitted  for  endeavor, 
Toil  our  only  worldly  lever, 
And  a  faith  that  faileth  never, — 

You  and  I ! 

Prudent  friends  may  frown  upon  us, — 
You  and  I! 


Somebody   Knows  155 

Say  that  loving  has  undone  us, — 

You  and  1 1 

Say  'tis  little  less  than  madness, 
Thriftless  marriages  bring  sadness; 
But  they  cannot  cloud  our  gladness, — 

You  and  I ! 

0,  we  envy  not  another, — 

You  and  I! 
We're  the  world  unto  each  other, — 

You  and  I! 

Perfect  love,  that  knows  no  measure, 
This  is  our  only  earthly  treasure ; 
And  we  ask  no  other  pleasure, — 

You  and  I! 

All  the  world  is  before  us, — 

You  and  I! 
And  a  tender  Father  o'er  us, — 

You  and  I! 

Hand  in  hand,  uncaring  whether 
Life  bring  storm  or  sunny  weather, 
We  will  face  its  cares  together,— 

You  and  I! 

I860. 


SOMEBODY  KNOWS. 

How  do  I  feel?     I  am  fresh  as  the  morning,— 

Happy  and  gay  as  its  first  early  bird! 
Why  do  you  look  such  prudential  warning  ? 

I  haven't  said  one  exceptional  word. 
What  was  I  doing  last  night  in  the  garden? 

It  was  near  twelve  when  I  entered  the  hall? 
0  my  severe,  inconsiderate  warden ! 

Why,  if  you  wanted  me,  couldn't  you  call ; 


156  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Why  did  I  slyly  steal  out  to  the  arbor, 
Leaving  you  sole,  to  a  comforting  doze? 

I  cannot  tell  you!  I  shall  not  tell  you! 

I  never  will  tell  you, — but  Somebody  knows ! 

O,  what  a  pity  that  you  were  so  sleepy! 

Saw  me  come  in?     Is  it  really  true? 
So,  my  good  aunt,  you  were  paying  Miss  Peepy? 

Well,  new!    I  really  wonder  at  you ! 
But — do  you  know  that  the  full  moon  was  shining? 

0,  do  you  know  that  the  world  was  abloom, 
In  the  cool  arms  of  the  midnight  reclining, 

Trying  to  hide  from  the  swift-coming  gloom 'if 
This  isn't  what  you  would  like  me  to  tell  you; 

There  is  a  secret,  I  see  you  suppose; 
But  I  shall  not  tell  you !    I  cannot  tell  you ! 

I  never  will  tell  you, — but  Somebody  knows ! 

So  you  are  sure  that  two  people  were  talking 

Under  the  porch,  where  the  sweetbrier  grows? 
So  you  areV.sure  that  two  people  were  walking 

In  the  green  alley  that  borders  the  close? 
0,  but  the  night  was  surrendered  to  sweetness ! 

O,  but  the  skies  were  so  kind  and  so  blue, 
0,  but  my  life  was  abrim  with  completeness, — 

Glad  as  the  rose  in  its  dower  of  dew ! 
This  isn't  what  you  have  asked  me  to  tell  you, — 

But  this  is  the  way  the  narrative  goes : 
I  cannot  tell  you !    I  shall  not  tell  you ! 

I  never  will  tell  you, — but  Somebody  knows ! 

What  do  you  say  about  conscience  and  blushes? 

The  sunset  will  tinge  the  most  virginal  snow; 
If  the  rose  I  sat  under  has  lent  me  its  flushes, 

Where  is  the  harm,  I  am  wanting  to  know? 
The  purplish  mist  loves  the  breast  of  the  mountain, 

The  honey-bee  clings  to  the  heart  of  the  flower, 
The  sunbeam  illumines  the  spray  of  the  fountain, 

Each  sprit  inherits  one  exquisite  hour! 


Diana  157 

Concerning  the  thing'  that  you  ask  me  to  tell  you : 
Ask  the  white  calla  the  way  that  it  grows ! 

For  I  cannot  tell  you !    I  shall  not  tell  you ! 
I  never  will  tell  you, — but  Somebody  knows! 

Sharp  spinster  eyes,  growing  dewy  and  dreamy, — 

So  did  you  look,  when  you  were  but  a  girl ! 
I  can  believe  your  complexion  was  creamy, 

That  the  sunlight  was  prisoned  in  each  little 

curl! 
You  have  some  love-waif  to  keep  and  remember ; 

You've  been  a  sweetheart,  though  never  a  wife; 
Looking  at  me,  you  are  out  of  November, 

Back  in  the  May  of  your  angular  life ! 
Therefore  you  know  it's  of  no  use  to  question 

What  was  well  said  and  done — under  the  rose ; 
For  I  cannot  tell  you !    I  shall  not  tell  you ! 

I  never  will  tell  you, — but  Somebody  knows ! 

1871. 


DIANA. 

Cast  not  my  way  those  superficial  eyes, 

Where  no  sweet  languor  lies, 
In  whose  wide  glance  thy  shallow  thoughts  arise, 

As  clear  as  speeched  replies : 
They  lack  the  grace  of  grace, — the  charm 

Of  mirrored  memories ! 

What  if  beneath  each  violet-veined  lid 

Such  sumptuous  hints  lie  hid 
Of  sensualized  sapphire,  diamonded 

With  flashings  that  forbid 
The  eyes  of  timid  men  to  read 

Their  tinselries  amid? 


158  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Huntress  of  men!    I  spell  thy  trade  aright! 

Thou  standest,  in  my  sight, 
Poor,  'mid  the  physical  gifts  that  make  thee  bright, 

And  bare  of  heart's  delight : 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  cometh  Age's 

Black,  despondent  night? 

False  goddess !   what  have  I  to  do  with  thee : 

Pass  on  and  let  me  be ! 
We  have  no  twin-impulses,  such  as  we; 

My  gifts  thou  shalt  not  see 
Upon  thy  crowded  altar, 

Fair  Impotency! 

Thou  knowest  the  sound  of  laughter ;  never  moan 

To  thee  comes,  spirit  blown; 
But,  only  for  thy  smiling,  thou  art  stone ! 

Pass  on !    pass  on ! 
Joy  in  thy  sensuous  bloom,   and  move 

To  tinkling  mirth  alone ! 

I  would  not  blame  thee  for  thy  bearing  cold, 

If  its  smooth  ice  did  hold 
Something  to  win — some  underthought,  untold — 

And  not  gross  greed  of  gold, 
And  soul-degrading  needs, 

And  trickeries  manifold. 

If  but  a  worthier  heart  were  manifest ! 

If  to  that  classic  breast — 
So  coldly  classic,  'neath  thy  silken  vest — 

Might  even  yet  be  prest 
That  Prince  of  Men  whose  love  to  thee 

Were  all  and  best ! 

It  will  not  ever  be !  nor  thou  outgo 

Or  break  the  hedged  row, 
By  frivolous  living  fostered,  sure  and  slow ; 

Thou  canst  not  overthrow 


Blossom-Time  159 

The  social  frauds  that  round  about  thee 
Rankly  grow. 

Thou  of  the  goddess-front !  thou,  Circe-limbed  and 
rare ! 

Thou,  made  for  men's  despair! 
Thou  white  voluptuousness,  unshrunk  by  care ! 

Ah,  fair !  ah,  false  as  fair ! 
Why  dost  thou  haunt  me,  temptress, 

Everywhere  ? 

1868. 


BLOSSOM-TIME. 

It   was   in  the   time   of   blossoms — in  the   fragrant 

time  of  blossoms — 
When  the  bee  came  from  the  Southland,  and  the 

trees  were  getting  green; 
And  the  earth  forgot  the  winter,  and  laughed  right 

out  for  gladness; 
And  I  heard  the  bluebird  asking  the  swallow  where 

he'd  been. 

The  wind,  a  minstrel  lover,  was  flattering  and  coax 
ing 

The  shy  young  rose  to  let  him  unveil  her  virgin 
face, — 

Just  to  let  him  lift  a  corner  of  the  green  and  jeal 
ous  mantle 

That  lay  betwixt  his  kisses  and  her  brightly  blush 
ing  grace. 

But  the  blue   eyes   of  the   violet  had  chilly   tears 

within  them; 
And  the  sick  heart  of  the  violet  was  withering  with 

pain. 


160  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

For  the  wind  had  been  her  sweetheart  before  the 

rose  awakened; 
And  now  he  had  forgotten  her,  and  would  not  come 

again ! 

And   down   the   pleasant   pathways   I   saw   two    go 

together,— 
A  young  thing  and  her  lover, — too  happy  to  look 

back 
To   where   a   pale   girl  lingered,   whose   eyes   were 

never  from  them, 
Whose  cheeks  were  like  the  snow-drops  that  died  in 

March, — alack ! 

Ah,  maiden!  happy  maiden!  watch  for  the  rose's 
bursting, 

And  pluck  it  at  its  reddest  to  glow  within  thy  hair ! 

And  thou— O  pale  forsaken!  search  for  the  with 
ered  violet, 

And  hide  it  in  thy  bosom, — its  fitting  place  is  there! 

1870. 


ONLY  HER  HAND ! 


Whenever  I  go  to  my  window, 

And  look  out  into  the  street, — 
Look  out  across  the  pavement 

Crowded  with  hurrying  feet, — 
My  eye  travels  up  and  over 

The  house-fronts,  dingy  and  dull, 
That  break  in  upon  my  dreaming 

Of  the  Land  of  the  Beautiful ! 

Till  it  reaches  another  window, 
Just  across  from  my  own, 

Where  a  quiet  and  lonely  woman 
Sits  all  day,  sewing  alone; 


Only  Her  Hand!  161 


And  yet  I  have  hardly  seen  here; 

And  here,  from  where  I  stand, 
I  only  know  she  is  sewing 

By  the  motion  of  her  hand! 

Well,  hers  is  an  attic  window, 

So  she  sits  close  to  the  light; 
And  her  hands  are  so  near  the  casement 

I  can  see  they  are  frail  and  white; 
With  a  ring  on  the  third  slim  finger 

Of  the  left, — so  small  and  alert. 
I  think :  "Is  she  weary  of  sewing  ? 

Does  she  know  the  'Song  of  the  Shirt' 

And  what  has  become  of  the  lover 

Who  came  and  wooed  and  won! 
I  see  no  man  sit  by  her, 

When  her  day's  work's  over  and  done. 
I  think  she  is  a  widow, 

From  the  glimpse  I  get  of  her  gown ; 
But  she  sits  in  the  shade  of  the  curtain, 

With  her  amber  braids  bent  down! 

And  I  can't  get  a  good  look  at  her 

For  all  that  I  ever  can  do ! 
There's  only  her  pale,  proud  profile, — 

And  I  guess  that  her  eyes  are  blue! 
She  never  stands  at  the  window, 

To  look  down  upon  the  street, 
Nor  across  at  the  opposite  houses, 

Or  maybe  our  eyes  would  meet ! 

She  has  a  pot  of  geranium 

And  mignonette  on  the  sill, 
And  a  cross  is  hung  in  one  corner, —     .. 

Ah,  hers  is  a  cross  to  kill! 
And  to  think  I  have  never  seen  her, 

Save  here  from  where  I  stand ;   - 
But  I'm  sure  if  I  ever  meet  her, 

I  shall  know  her  by  her  hand! 


162  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

I'd  swear  she's  not  over  twenty 

From  the  way  she  turns  her  head; 
And  the  cheek  that  is  next  the  window 

Is  all  of  a  delicate  red ; 
And  my  glass  has  helped  me  discover 

A  ravishing  little, ear!     . 
But  her  hand  I  think  the  most  of, — 

It's  her  hand  I  hold  so  dear ! 

The  hand  that  holds  the  needle 

That  goes  in  and  out  all  day, 
What  wouldn't  I  give  to  snatch  it, 

And  fling  it  far  away, 
That  terrible  tiny  needle ! 

And  take  those  two  little  hands, 
And  fold  one  over  the  other, 

And  kiss  her  where  she  stands? 

I'm  a  fool,  but  I  cannot  help  it. 

It  cuts  me  right  to  the  heart, 
To  think  of  the  life  she's  leading, 

While  mine  is  the  pleasanter  part; 
Ah,  dear  little  patient  woman! 

From  the  window  where  I  stand, 
I've  learned  to  know  and  to  love  you 

Only  from  watching  your  hand! 

1869. 


ENOLA. 

What  shall  we  do  for  the  heart  that  is  hurt? 
How  shall  we  freshen  the  cheek  that  is  pale ; 
Strengthen  the  footsteps  that  falter  and  fail,- 
Brighten  the  eyes  of  Enola? 

The  sunshine  is  out  of  the  trail  of  her  hair, 
The  waist  in  her  girdle's  too  slender  by  half; 


Unawares  163 

Gone  is  the  ravishing,  low  little  laugh 
From  the  blossomy  mouth  of  Enola. 

Her  necklace  of  pearls  was  broken  today; 
Some  fell  in  her  bosom,  and  some  to  the  ground 
Slid  whitely  and  brightly,  with  never  a  sound, 
Like  tears  from  the  face  of  Enola. 

If  the  lover  who  left  her  should  seek  her  tonight, 
And  put  back  the  ring  that  she  misses  the  most, 
It  would  not  stay  on,  but  slip  off  and  be  lost 
From  the  poor  little  hand  of  Enola ! 

1870. 


UNAWARES. 

The  wind  was  whispering  to  the  vines 
The  secret  of  the  summer  night; 
The  tinted  oriel  window  gleamed 
But  faintly  in  the  misty  light; 
Beneath  it  we  together  sat 
In  the  sweet  stillness  of  content. 

Till  from  the  slow-consenting  cloud 
Came  forth  Diana,  bright  and  bold, 
And  drowned  us,  ere  we  wrere  aware, 
In  a  great  shower  of  liquid  gold; 
And,  shyly  lifting  up  my  eyes, 
I  made  acquaintance  with  your  face. 

And  sudden  something  in  me  stirred, 
And  moved  me  to  impulsive  speech, 
With  little  flutterings  between, 
And  little  pauses  to  beseech, 
From  your  sweet  graciousness  of  mind, 
Indulgence  and  a  kindly  ear. 


164  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Ah !  glad  I  was  as  any  bird 
That  softly  pipes  a  timid  note, 
To  hear  it  taken  up  and  trilled 
Out  cheerily  by  a  stronger  throat, 
When,  free  from  discord  and  constraint, 
Your  thought  responded  to  my  thought. 

I  had  a  carven  missal  once, 

With  graven  scenes  of  "Christ,  His  Woe." 

One  picture  in  that  quaint  old  book 

Will  never  from  my  memory  go, 

Though  merely  in  a  childish  wise 

I  used  to  search  for  it  betimes. 

It  showed  the  fac6  of  God  in  man 
Abandoned  to  his  watch  of  pain, 
And  given  of  his  own  good-will 
To  every  weaker  thing's  disdain ; 
But  from  the  darkness  overhead 
Two  pitying  angel  eyes  looked  down. 

How  often  in  the  bitter  night 
Have  I  not  fallen  on  my  face, 
To  sick  and  tired  of  heart  to  ask 
God's  pity  in  my  grievous  case ; 
Till  the  dank  deadness  of  the  dark, 
Receding,  left  me  pitiless. 

Then  have  I  said :  "Ah !  Christ  the  Lord ! 
God  sent  his  angel  unto  thee ; 
But  both  ye  leave  me  to  myself, — 
Perchance  ye  do  not  even  see !" 
Then  was  it  as  a  mighty  stone 
Above  my  sunken  heart  were  rolled. 

Now,  in  the  moon's  transfiguring  light, 
I  seemed  to  see  you  in  a  dream ; 
Your  listening  face  was  silvered  o't- «• 


Disowned  165 

By  one  divinely  radiant  beam ; 
I  leaned  towards  you,  and  my  talk 
Was  dimly  of  the  haunting  past. 

I  took  you  through  deep  soundings  where 
My  freighted  ships  went  down  at  noon, — 
Gave  glimpses  of  deflowered  plains, 
Blown  over  by  the  hot  Simoon ; 
Then  I  was  silent  for  a  space : 
''God  sends  no  angels  unto  me !" 

',••'••  ' '  t , '  .      •• '       i- 

My  heart  withdrew  unto  herself, 
When  lo  !  a  knocking  at  the  door : 
"Am  I  so  soon  a  stranger  here, 
Who  was  an  honored  guest  before?" 
Then,  looking  in  your  eyes,  I  knew 
You  were  God's  angel  sent  to  me ! 

1870. 


DISOWNED. 

Go,  then,  and  a  blessing  go  with  you, 

Lost  love  of  my  sunniest  days ! 
Though  the  heart  that  I  trusted  rejects  me, 

I  shall  think  of  you  only  to  praise. 
Though  the  eyes  and  the  voice  of  affection 

Are  gifts  that  enrich  me  no  more, 
And  I  meet  but  the  look  of  a  stranger 

Where  tenderness  brightened  before. 

If  the  love  that  I  reckoned  eternal 

Is  withered  and  old  in  a  day, 
I  prize  not  the  less  its  remembrance, 

Because  it  hath  gladdened  my  way; 
And  the  scorning  that  seeketh  to  wound  me 

Shall  meet  with  no  scorn  in  return ; 
For  the  heart  that  is  loyal  forever 

In  faithfulness  only  can  mourn ! 


166  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

And  yet  is  it  love  that  could  doubt  me? 

And  ah !  is  it  love  that  could  wound  ? 
In  the  rapture  of  rarest  affection, 

How  soon  a  dissension  is  found ! 
Go,  then,  in  the  sternness  of  anger, 

With  a  bitter  distrust  of  my  truth, — 
Take  back  such  a  worthless  emotion, 

And  leave  me  the  wrecks  of  my  youth. 

Ah,  lost !  but  still,  dearest,  forgive  me ! 

My  spirit  is  wrung  to  its  core, — 
Forgive  me  these  selfish  reproaches, 

I  shall  speak  to  reproach  you  no  more ! 
I  will  wait  for  the  justification 

That  cometh  with  thought  and  with  time 
And  my  life  shall  become  an  endeavor 

To  grow  to  the  needs  of  its  prime. 

I  know  I  must  love  you  forever, 

I  know  I  must  suffer  a  space ; 
Like  a  child,  in  its  piteous  abandon, 

When  it  cries  for  its  dead  mother's  face ! 
God  gave  us  this  love  for  the  human; 

Therefore  it  is  good,  and  no  curse. 
I  will  strive  that  this  trial  may  leave  me 

More  tender  and  brave,  and  not  worse ! 

1864. 


AMY  AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Get  you  gone,  0  Day,  so  dreary! 

Creep  into  the  arms  of  Night! 
And  these  scenes  of  wasted  beauty 

Let  the  darkness  seal  from  sight. 
Falls  the  rain  in  dirge-like  cadence ; 

Chaunts  the  wind  a  woful  rhyme ; 


Amy  at  the  Window  167 

And  such  bitter,  bitter  memories 
Haunt  the  sombre  winter-time ! 

Vain!    I  cannot  any  longer 

Put  away  the  thoughts  that  rise; 
I  have  battled  long-  and  bravely  — 

I  have  worn  a  proud  disguise. 
But  tonight  my  heart  is  weary, 

And  my  courage  ebbs  away 
With  the  tears  that  gush  so  hotly, — 

Ah!  I  kept  them  back  today. 

And  it  makes  me  weak  to  listen 

To  the  far-off  river's  moan; 
And  my  pain  is  always  sharpest 

When  I  find  myself  alone. 
Awful  is  this  gulf  of  silence 

Stretching  'twixt  your  life  and  mine ; 
Let  me  fall  and  die  beside  it, 

Rather  than  live  on  and  pine ! 

And  I  lift  my  soul  in  pleading, 

0,  so  passionate  and  deep! 
God !  if  I  could  only  cross  it, 

On  your  neck  to  fall  and  weep ! 
And  I  kneel  and  send  my  moaning 

Feebly  to   the   farther  shore, 
Feeling  that  it  will  not  reach  you,— 

Feeling  you  are  mine  no  more ! 

Yet,   0  lost  one!   I  forgive   you 

Those  last,  cruel,  crushing  words, — 
I  could  kiss  the  hand  that  rudely 

Struck  my  spirit's  quivering  chords. 
I  forgive  you  all  my  anguish, 

All  these  weary  nights  of  woe, 
And  the  bleakness  of  my  Future, 

All  because— I  love  you  so. 


168  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

But  I  never,  never,  wronged  you, — 

Never  was  in  thought  untrue; 
All  my  holiest,  highest  heart-throbs, 

And  the  inmost,  were  for  you. 
When   they  leave   me   cold   and   silent, 

When  this  passionate  pain   is  past, 
You  will  know  how  much  I  loved  you,- 

Know  me  loyal  to  the  last ! 

I860. 


RUSE  DE  GUERRE. 

So,  Walter,  it  seems  you're  offended,— 

I'll  own  I've  not  acted  quite  right; 
But  is  the  occasion  sufficient 

To  stir  up  your  wrath  in  its  might? 
If  you  hadn't  appeared  so  excited, 

If  you  were  not  so  easily  teased, 
I  should  never  have  gone  off  with  Charlie, — 

But  you  knew  I  would  do  as  I  pleased! 

Great  Mogul !  am  I  your  Sultana, 

To  come  and  to  go  at  command? 
How  you  could  imagine  I  feared  you 

Is  a  thing  that  I  don't  understand; 
If  you  hadn't  assumed  le  dictateur 

With  such  an  imperial  air, 
I  should  never  have  thought  of  offending; 

But  your  look, — it  said,  "Go  if  you  dare !" 

Shall  I  own  that  the  mirth  and  the  music 
Of  that  night  were  all  lost  upon  me ; 

Even  Charlie's  low  tones  were  unheeded, — 
Ah !  I  thought  of  one  dearer  than  he ! 

While  you  were  resolving  to  cast  me 
Beyond  the  confines  of  your  heart, 


Ruse  De  Guerre  169 

I  sighed,  in  the  midst  of  rejoicing, 
That  you  in  the  scene  had  no  part. 

One  kind  look — my  heart  would  have  softened, 

One  whisper — my  tears  had  burst  forth ! 
But  your  words  in  their  bitter  upbraiding, — 

Ah !  they  stifled  regret  at  its  birth ; 
And  my  spirit,  all  tameless,  rose  proudly, 

Indignation  gave  strength  to  each  nerve : 
I  knew  I  was  wrong,  but,  0,  surely, 

I'd  done  nothing  such  wrath  to  deserve. 

Now,  Walter,  you  know  that  I  love  you, 

In  spite  of  the  notions  you  take ; 
And  my  poor  heart  is  aching  right  sadly, 

Yet  I  don't  think  'tis  likely  to  break. 
'Tis  a  pity,  I'll  own, — and  reads  badly; 

But  I  fear  the  material's  tough, — 
I'm  not  going  to  die,  mon  cher  Walter, 

Because — you  don't  love  me  enough ! 

You  know  you  are  perfectly  killing ! 

Addie  Bell  is  aware  of  it  too ; 
She's  tender  and  timid  and  clinging, 

And  then — she  is  dying  for  you ! 
If  you  love  her,  I'm  perfectly  willing 

To  let  her  slip  into  my  place ; 
I  never  had  half  so  much  sweetness, 

Nor  half  so  much  languishing  grace. 

So,  Walter,  you're  welcome  to  dangle 

Around  that  "dear  amiable  girl" ; 
You're  welcome  to  praise  in  my  hearing 

The  tint  and  the  twine  of  each  curl; 
You're  perfectly  welcome  to  whisper 

The  sweetest  of  things — when  I'm  by. 
I'm  content  if  you  find  your  elysium 

In  the  light  of  her  pretty  brown  eye. 


170  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

You  can't  make  me  jealous,  cher  Walter ! 

There's  no  use  in  trying  that  game; 
You  might  die  of  spontaneous  combustion, — 

'Twould  be  hard  to  put  me  in  a  flame ! 
So  I  think  you  had  better  consider. 

Don't  be  rash,  but  come  back  while  you  can; 
For  I  think — and  am  I  mistaken? — 

That  you  are  a  sensible  man. 

My  position  at  present  is  trying; 

Poor  Charlie  but  lives  in  my  sight, 
And  that  handsome,  distinguished  Lieutenant 

Was  very  attentive  last  night ! 
And  Addie  told  Lou,  in  a  whisper, 

She  really  preferred  him  to  you. 
Ah,  Walter,  he's  terribly  handsome, 

And  his  eyes  are  so  tenderly  blue ! 

So  you  see  how  the  matter  stands,  Walter; 

'Tisn't  Addie  with  whom  you've  to  deal; 
You  can't  work  on  me  by  your  trifling, — 

I  can  cleverly  hide  what  I  feel ; 
So  if  you're  pretending,  you'd  better 

Be  wise,  and  come  back  while  you  can ; 
For  I  think — and  am  I  mistaken  ? — 

That  you  are  a  sensible  man. 

VARIATIONS  IN  THE  SHAPE  OF  A  SHOWER  OF  TEARS. 

Come  back  if  you  love  me,  dear  Walter ; 

I'm  willing  to  own  I  was  wrong! 
I  give  up,  for  my  spirit  is  broken, — 

I'm  missing  you  all  the  day  long. 
So,  Walter,  now,  won't  you  consider, 

And  decide  to  come  back  while  you  can? 
For  I  think — and  am  I  mistaken? — 

That  you  are  a  sensible  man. 

1859. 


Last  Heart-Beats  171 


LAST  HEART-BEATS. 

Send  me — if  but  a  rose-leaf — yet  a  token, 
To  tell  me  what  your  lips  have  left  unspoken, 
That  you  are  sorry  that  my  heart  is  broken, 
Before  I  die. 

For  soon  your  silence  will  no  more  perplex  me, 
And  soon  your  coldness  will  have  ceased  to  vex,  me, 
Although  I  cling  unto  the  rock  that  wrecks  me 
Until  I  die. 

And  presently  my  hand  will  cease  its  grasping, 
And  presently  my  breath  will  cease  its  gasping, 
And  I  shall  sink  beyond  your  tardy  clasping, 
For  I  shall  die. 

Ah !  you  have  left  me,  who  would  never  leave  you, 
And  you  have  slain  me,  who  did  never  grieve  you; 
But  I? — at  least,  at  least,  I  cap  forgive  you 
Before  I  die ! 

1870. 


A  WOMAN'S  COMPLAINT. 

I  saw  myself  in  the  glass  today, 
And  I  said,  as  I  loosened  my  hair, 

"0  that  my  face  were  a  talisman, 
And  he  could  have  it  to  wear!" 

For  there  is  no  thing  that  I  would  not  give 
To  fetter  his  restless  heart; 


172  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

And  if  his  tenderness  ever  should  fail 
The  glory  from  life  would  part. 

I  should  not  suffer  so  if  I  knew 

That  he  missed  me  any  tonight; 
I  wonder  if  ever  he  wants  me  now, — 

I  know  that  it  isn't  right — 
I  know  it  is  selfish  to  murmur  and  doubt; 

Is  he  careless  or  cold?     0,  never! 
But  they  tell  me  that  man  forgets  in  an  hour, 

While  woman  remembers  forever. 

I  love  him !   I  love  him  with  all  my  life ! 

And  I  give  him  its  choicest  things ; 
But  he  puts  me  into  a  gilded  cage, 

And  cripples  my  budding  wings! 
I  want  to  be  all  that  a  woman  should  be, 

But  he  has  the  narrowest  views ; 
I  want  to  work,  and  he  wants  me  to  play; 

And  he  tells  me  to  do  as  I  choose ! 

To  do  as  I  choose ;    I  would  choose  to  be, 

Not  a  child,  to  be  petted  and  dressed, 
But  his  friend,— on  the  terms  of  an  equal  trust 

Respected,  as  well  as  caressed. 
He  gives  me  a  kiss,  and  he  goes  away, 

And  that  horrible  office  door 
Shuts  out  the  face  and  the  voice  and  the  hand 

That  charmed  him  a  moment  before! 

And  if  he's  troubled  or  sad  or  wronged, 

He  tells  me  never  a  word: 
He  likens  me  unto  a  summer  flower, 

Or  a  delicate  singing-bird. 
If  he'd  teach  me,  I  know  I  could  learn 

To  work  with  him,  side  by  side; 
And  then  I  could  hold  my  head  up,  high, 

With  a  sterling  womanly  pride! 


Disarmed  173 

And  so  I  am  jealous  of  him  I  love ; 

0,  jealous  as  jealous  can  be : 
For  his  lordly  aims  and  his  growing  plans 

Keep  him  afar  from  me. 
And  I  sit  away  by  myself  tonight, 

Dropping  the  bitterest  tears 
That  have  moistened  the  cheeks  that  he  left  unkissed, 

To  whiten  with  cruel  fears ! 

1863. 


DISARMED. 

O  love !  so  sweet  at  first ! 

So  bitter  in  the  end! 
Thou  canst  be  fiercest  foe, 

As  well  as  fairest  friend. 
Are  these  poor,  withered  leaves 

The  fruitage  of  thy  May? 
Thou  that  wert  strong  to  save, 

How  art  thou  swift  to  slay! 

Ay!  thou  art  swift  to  slay, 

Despite  thy  kiss  and  clasp, 
Thy  long,  caressing  look, 

Thy  subtle,  thrilling  grasp! 
Ay!  swifter  far  to  slay 

Than  thou  art  strong  to  save, 
And  selfish  in  thy  need, 

And  cruel  as  the  grave ! 

Yes !  cruel  as  the  grave,— 
Go !  go !  and  come  no  more ! 

But  canst  thou  set  my  heart 
Just  where  it  was  before? 

Go  !  go  !  and  come  no  more  ! 
Go !  leave  me  with  my  tears, 

The  only  gift  of  thine 

That  shall  outlive  the  years. 


174  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 

Yet  shall  outlive  the  years 
One  other,  cherished  thing, 

Slight  as  a  vagrant  plume 

Shed   from   some   passing    wing 

The  memory  of  thy  first 

Divine,  half-timid  kiss. 

Go !  I  forgive  thee  all 
In  weeping  over  this! 

1872. 


A  LOVE-SONG. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

Sweetest  of  hours,  Beloved ! 
When  I  thought  but  to  kiss  thy  feet, 

Thou  hast  lifted  me  up,  Beloved ! 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

To  lie  in  thy  arms,  Beloved ! 
And  to  feel  the  ecstatic  beat 

Of  thy  heart  of  hearts,  Beloved! 

And  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

To  look  in  thy  eyes,  Beloved! 
And  see  myself  there  complete 

As  my  being  in  thine,  Beloved! 

Ah,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

For  the  rose  of  thy  mouth,  Beloved ! 
Thou  givest  my  mouth  to  meet, — 

I  am  come  to  my  throne,  Beloved! 

1871. 


For  the  Sake  of  Singing  175 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  SINGING. 

0  the  day  when  we  two  stood 
At  the  gate,  my  heart  and  I, — 

This  side,  Silence ;  that  side,  Song, 
Saying,  "Let  us  pass  or  die !" 

On  their  mouths  we  saw  their  songs, 
As  the  singers  dallied  by, — 

This  side,  Silence ;  that  side,  Song,— 
Exiles  thence,  my  heart  and  I! 

Ah,  the  heart  was  but  a  child's! 

Ah,  the  child  was  but  a  waif! 
And  their  struggle  at  the  barrier, 

Silence  hid  it — deep  and  safe. 

We  two  lingering  at  the  gate, 
Since  we  might  not  hear,  to  see, 

Fell  so  deep  in  love  with  singing 
That  my  heart  sang  unto  me. 

And  I,  listening  to  its  song, 
Learned  to  sing  as  well  as  see ; 

Till  I  sang  unto  my  heart 
As  my  heart  sang  unto  me ! 

We,  self-taught,  though  older  grown, 
Have  no  skill  in  minstrelsy. 

1  but  sing  to  you  the  songs 
That  my  heart  sings  unto  me ! 


176  Sounds  from  Secret  Chambers 


0,  DOUBTING  SPIRIT  OF  THE  AGE! 

0,  doubting  Spirit  of  the  Age ! 

Where  hast  thou  led  our  wandering  feet, 
By  pathways  that  at  first  were  sweet, 

With  silver  voice  of  persiflage? 

What  place  is  this  to  which,  through  rose 
And  laurel  thickets,  we  are  come, 
Where,  all  at  once  amazed  and  dumb, 

We  stand,  while  fear  upon  us  grows? 

What  place  is  this?    Each  leafy  nook 

Had  seemed  to  harbor  lonesome  nymphs; 
Ever  it  seemed  that  we  could  glimpse 

A  faun  beside  each  shadowed  brook. 

A  faun,  with  sharply  pointed  ears; 

Queer-hoofed,  with  shaggy  thighs  and  groins ; 

Wild-eyed  and  brown,  with  unclothed  loins 
Shy-peering,  full  of  lurking  fears. 

What  place  is  this?    What  place  is  this ; 

What  mean  these  whitely  bleaching  bones? 

What  mean  these  half -heard,  far-off  moans? 
This  is  Arcadia.     What's  amiss? 

Backward  and  downward  we  are  come ; 

The  fate  of  all  who  ever  turned. 

Glances  to  where  those  altars  burned 
Whose  sensual  oracles  are  dumb. 

Backward  is  downward !     Set  each  face 
Once  more  fair  toward  the  onward  sun, 


0,  Doubting  Spirit  of  the  Age  177 

Favored,  if,  ere  his  race  be  run, 
We  come  into  a  lighted  space. 

A  clean,  clear  well  enlightened  space, 
Unvexed  by  shadows  from  the  past ; 
Strange  spells  that  bind  the  victim  fast 

In  the  old  darkness  of  disgrace ! 


Laura  C   .R.   Searing 

(Howard   Glyndon) 

Taken  in  1873 


PART  II. 


IDYLS  OF  BATTLE 

AND 

POEMS  OF  THE  REBELLION. 

God!  how  this  land  grows  rich  in  loyal  blood 
Poured  out  upon  it  to  its  utmost  length; 

The  incense  of  a  nation's  sacrifice — 

The  wrested  offering  of  a  nation's  strength! 

It  is  the  costliest  land  beneath  the  sun! 

'Tis  priceless,  purchaseless!      And  not  a  rood 
But  hath  its  title  written  clear,  and  signed 

In  some  slain  hero's  consecrated  blood! 


To  One 

Whose    Quiet    Words   of   Praise    Would   Make    Me    Proudest 
of  All!   but  Whose  Name  Is  Too  Sacred  to  Be 

Written   Upon   This   Page: 
Who  was  to  My  Past,  in  the  Highest   Sense  of  the  Words, 

Friend   and   Counsellor, 

And   Whose   Presence   in   the   Hereafter   Will   Be 

Dearest  to  Me,  After  God's, 

I    Consecrate    This, 

My  First  Endeavor. 

Shall  not  the  earnest  spirit  plead  for  the  untried  hand? 

HOWARD  GLYNDON. 

New   York,   1864. 


IDYLS  OF  BATTLE 

IN  TIME  OP  WAR. 

There  are  white  faces  in  each  sunny  street, 
And  signs  of  trouble  meet  us  everywhere ; 

The  nation's  pulse  hath  an  unsteady  beat, 
For  scents  of  battle  foul  the  summer  air. 

A  thrill  goes  through  the  city's  busy  life, 

And    then  —  as    when    a    strong    man    stints    his 
breath — 

A  stillness  comes ;  and  each  one  in  his  place 
Waits  for  the  news  of  triumph,  loss,  and  death. 

The  "Extras"  fall  like  rain  upon  a  drought, 
And  startled  people  crowd  around  the  board 

Whereon  the  nation's  sum  of  loss  or  gain 
In  rude  and  hurried  characters  is  scored. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  glorious  triumph-gleam — 
An  earnest  of  our  Future's  recompense; 

Perhaps  it  is  a  story  of  defeat, 

Which  smiteth  like  a  fatal  pestilence. 

But  whether  Failure  darkens  all  the  land, 

Or  whether  Victory  sets  its  blood  ablaze,       ... 
An  awful  cry,  a  mighty  throb  of  pain, 

Shall  scare  the  sweetness  from  these  summer  days. 
Young   hearts   shall   bleed,   and   older   hearts   shall 
break, 

A  sense  of  loss  shall  be  in  many  a  place ; 
And  oh,  the  bitter  nights!  the  weary  days! 

The  sharp  desire  for  many  a  buried  face ! 


186  Idyls  of  Battle 

God !  how  this  land  grows  rich  in  loyal  blood, 
Poured  out  upon  it  to  its  utmost  length ! 

The  incense  of  a  people's  sacrifice, — 

The  wrested  offering  of  a  people's  strength ! 

It  is  the  costliest  land  beneath  the  sun ! 

'Tis  priceless,  purchaseless !     And  not  a  rood 
But  hath  its  title,  written  clear  and  signed 

In  some  slain  hero's  consecrated  blood. 

And  noi   a  flower  that  gems  its  mellowing  soil 
But  thriveth  well  beneath  the  holy  dew 

Of  tears,  that  ease  a  nation's  straining  heart, 

When  the  Lord  of  battles  smites  it  through  and 
through. 

1863. 


LEFT  ON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

Oh,  my  darling !  my  darling !  never  to  feel 

Your  hand  going  over  my  hair! 
Never  to  lie  in  your  arms  again, — 

Never  to  know  where  you  are ! 
Oh,  the   weary  miles  that  stretch  between 

My  feet  and  the  battle-ground, 
Where  all  that  is  left  of  my  dearest  hope 

Lies  under  some  yellow  mound ! 

It  is  but  little  I  might  have  done 

To  lighten  your  parting  pain ;  , 

But  'tis  bitter  to  think  that  you  died  alone 

Out  in  the  dark  and  the  rain! 
Oh,  my  hero  love ! — to  have  kissed  the  pain 

And  the  mist  from  your  fading  eyes ! 
To  have  saved  one  only  passionate  .look 

To  sweeten  these  memories ! 


To  the  Earnest  Thinkers  187 

And  thinking  of  all,  I  am  strangely  stunned, 

And  cannot  believe  you  dead. 
You  loved  me,  dear!    And  I  loved  you  dear! 

And  your  letter  lies  there,  unread! 
You  are  not  dead !     You  are  not  dead ! 

God  never  could  will  it  so — 
To  craze  my  brain  and  break  my  heart 

And  shatter,  my  life — I  know! 

Dead !  dead !  and  never  a  word, 

Never  a  look  for  me ! 
Dead !  dead !  and  our  marriage-day 

Never  on  earth  to  be ! 
I  am  left  alone,  and  the  world  is  changed, 

So  dress  me  in  bridal  white, 
And  lay  me  away  in  some  quiet  place 

Out  of  the  hateful  light. 

1863. 


TO  THE  EARNEST  THINKERS. 

If  the  mist  of  failure,  gray, 

Cloud  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
For  whose  coming  all  the  waiting  millions  pray, — 

If  misgivings  dull  and  rust 

The  first  brightness  of  their  trust,; — 
Let  the  earnest  thinkers  open  up  the  way. 

Show  each  brave,  impatient  soul 

How  the  waves  of  failure  roll 
Back  from  brows  that  sternly  front  the  waiting  goal ; 

How  the  single-handed  right, 

In  its  God-anointed  might, 
Dares  to  meet  and  conquer  evil's  legioned  whole. 

Show  them  how  a  brief  defeat 
Hath  its  uses  pure  and  sweet, — 


188  Idyls  of  Battle 

How  it  fires  the  brain,  the  soul,  with  newer  heat; 

Failure's  lowest  depths  we  sound, 

Then,  with  terrible  rebound, 
Up  the  heights  of  triumph  go  our  conquering  feet! 

Show  them  how  the  Truth  is  strong 

When  it  battles  with  the  Wrong, 
Though  the  coward  quail  before  the  struggle  long; 

How  the  soldier  of  the  Right 

Dares  the  fierce,  unequal  fight, 
Leaping  fearless  in  to  Treason's  armed  throng! 

Earnest  thinkers  of  the  day! 

It  is  yours  to  clear  the  way, 
While  our  soldiers  fight,  our  women  work  and  pray ; 

Send  your  stirring  words  abroad 

For  the  Right— for  Truth— for  God! 
With  the  prophet's  fiery  spirit  seal  your  say! 

1863. 


AFTER  THE  VICTORIES. 

Ha !  the  wine-press  of  pain  hath  been  trodden ! 

And  suffering  meed  mantles  high, — 
The  perfect,  rare  wine,  wrought  of  patience, 

It  moveth  aright  to  the  eye ! 
Oh!  dark  was  the  night  while  we  trampled 

Its  death-purple  grapes  under  foot; 
And  no  song  parted  silence  from  darkness, 

For  Liberty's  Sibyl  was  mute ! 

And  the  fiends  of  the  lowest  were  loosened, 
To  persecute  Truth  at  their  will! 

They  spat  on  her  white  shining  forehead, 
She  standing  unmoved  and  still ! 

The  hiss  of  the  white-blooded  coward, 
The  vile  breath  of  calumny's  brood, 


After  the  Victories  189 

Befouled   and    bedarkened    the   kingdom, 
And  poisoned  the  place  where  we  stood ! 

We, — treading  the  ripe  grapes  asunder, 

With  failing  and  overworked  feet ; 
Alone  in  the  terrible  darkness, 

Alone  in  the  stifling  heat; 
With  agony-drops  raining  over 

Our  weak  hands  from  desolate  brows ; 
With  a  deadlier  pain  in  our  spirits, 

O'er  whose  failure  no  promise  arose. 

Shook  the  innermost  being  of  justice, 

Stirred  the  innermost  pulse  of  our  God, 
With  a  cry  of  remonstrance  whose  anguish 

Frighted  devils  and  saints  from  its  road ! 
All  the  pain  of  a  long-martyred  nation, 

All  its  giant  heart's  overtasked  strength, 
In  one  Sampson-like  throe  were  unfettered, 

Standing  up  for  a  hearing  at  length ! 

And,  even  as  we  fell  in  the  darkness — 

Falling  down,  with  our  mouths  in  the  dust, 
With  toil-stained  and  blood-dyed  garments 

That  betokened  us  true  to  our  trust, 
When  the  laugh  of  the  scoffer  was  loudest, 

And  the  clapping  of  cowardly  hands, 
A  glory  blazed  out  from  the  Westward, 

That  startled  the  far-distant  lands  i 


Ha !  the  wine-press  of  pain  hath  been  trodden ! 

Now  summon  the  laborers  forth ! 
Let  them  come  in  their  red-dyed  garments, 

The  lion-browed  sons  of  the  North ! 
Not  for  failure  their  veins  have  been  leavened 

With  the  vintage  of  Seventy-six ! 
Nor  unworthy  the  blood  of  our  heroes 

With  its  rare  old  en  currents  to  mix  ! 


190  Idyls  of  Battle 

Ha !    Conquerors !    Come  ye  out  boldly, 

Full  fronting  our  reverent  eyes! 
In  the  might  of  your  glorious  manhood, 

Ye  Saviours  of  Freedom,  arise ! 
Come  out  in  your  sun-ripened  grandeur, 

Ye  victors,  who  wrestled  with  Wrong ! 
Come !  toil-worn  and  weary  with  battle, — 

We  greet  you  with  shout  and  with  song ! 

1861. 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 

AFTEE  A  DEFEAT. 

Ah,  God !  shall  tears  poured  out  like  rain 
And  deathly  pangs,  and  praying  breath, 
And  faith  as  deep  and  strong  as  death, 

Be  given — and  all  in  vain? 

Thou  claimest  martyrs,— they  are  given, — 
What  shall  the  stern  demand  suffice? 
From  out  our  darkened  homes  arise 

Strong  cries  that  startle  Heaven. 

We  murmur  not,  enduring  all 

With  broken  hearts  but  silent  lips; 
With  all  our  glories  in  eclipse, 

And  some  beyond  recall. 

We  stand  beside  our  dead,  our  eyes 
In  patient  sufferance  raised  to  Thee, 
And  kiss  the  still  brows  reverently, — 

Behold  our  sacrifice ! 

Behold  our  sacrifice !     We  give 

The  best  blood  of  a  suffering  land ! 


For  the  Stricken  191 

A  nation's  heart  by  its  own  hand 
Is  stricken — that  Right  may  live ! 

No  failure  this !     God's  own  right  hand 

A  victory  shall  write  it  down ! 

The  years  shall  strengthen  its  renown; 
Be  proud  of  it,  0  Land ! 

Thou  Christ!  The  Godhood  of  thy  brow 
Paled  'neath  the  throes  of  mortal  pain ; 
But  all  thy  glory  glows  again, 

Thrice-haloed,  round  thee  now ! 

Give  us  the  martyr's  steadfast  power, 

So,  passing  our  Gethsemane, 

Our  glory  shall  but  brighter  be 
For  this,  our  trial  hour ! 

186S. 


FOR  THE  STRICKEN. 

IN  MEMOEIAM. 

0  wistful  eyes !  that  will  not  cease 
From  gazing  sadly  after  one 
Who  went  out  in  the  dark  alone, 

Although  ye  say,  "He  is  at  peace !" 

0  hearts !  that  will  not  turn  away, 

But  questioning  stand  without  the  door ; 
He  passeth  through   it  never  more, 

For  he  hath  reached  the  perfect  day ! 

Even  when  we  thought  him  most  our  own, 
His  crown  was  nearest  to  his  brow; 
And  he  redeemed  his   early  vow, 

And  passed,  with  all  his  armor  on. 


192  Idyls  of  Battle 

He  turned  to  clasp  a  shadowy  hand, 

Unreal  to  our  duller  eyes; 

He  saw  the  gleams  of  Paradise 
Break  through  the  darkness  of  the  land. 

His  gain  exceedeth  all  our  loss ; 

We  linger  on  these  barren  sands, — 
He  is  a  dweller  in  the  lands 

Bequeathed  the  soldiers  of  the  cross ! 

1862. 


THE  STORY  OF  SUMTER. 

THEN.     1861. 

Over  sea  and  over  city  slowly  crept  the  sullen  morn, 
All  the   splendor   of   its   dawning   by   a   growing 

shadow  curst; 
And    the    sunless    sky    that    sphered    us    nursed    a 

tempest  yet  unborn, 
But  we  waited  en  the  Battery*  for  another  storm 

to  burst. 
Grim,  defiant,  as  some  olden  warrior  clad  in  chilly 

mail, 

Sullen,  signless  silence  brooding  o'er  its  weather- 
beaten  face, 
From  its  brow  the  vapor  rifted  by  the  freshening 

eastern  gale, 
Saw  we  Sumter,  as  the  grayness  of  the  morning 

waned  apace. 
Ha !  the  sluggish  day  is  shaken  from  its  stillness  by 

a  growl, 
The  defiance  of  the   Southron — spoken  from  the 

cannon's  mouth — 

Blazes  out  the   fiery  ruin  from  beneath   its  smoky 
cowl, 

*The    battery    of    Charleston    harbor. 


The  Story  of  Sumter  193 

And  within  the  walls  of  Sumter  falls  the  gauntlet 

of  the  South ! 

No  response  unto  the  challenge !     Are  they  power 
less  to  defy? 
But  what  flutters  from  the  ramparts  as  the  vapor 

parts  away? 
Still   their   own   insulted   colors   o'er   the   dauntless 

heroes  fly, 
Flaunting  all  their  braided  splendors  in  the  sullen 

face  of  day! 
Ah !    behind    those    silent   bulwarks,    rising    grimly 

from  the  sea, 

Waiting  for  the   stealthy   coming   of   the   death- 
dispensing  shell, 
There's  a  band  of  fearless  spirits;  guess  how  many 

strong  they  be, — 
They  who  stood  so  long   and  bravely,   ere  their 

glorious  banner  fell! 
Seventy   men   to   man   the   ramparts   and   to   work 

each  giant  gun! 
Only  these  to  face  the  Southrons,  who  are  seven 

thousand  strong! 
Bravely  toiled  they  from  the  dawning  to  the  setting 

of  the  sun, — 

Bursting  shell  and  shot  around  them  in  a  cease 
less  fiery  throng ! 
Fast  and  faster  belched  the  ruin  from  the  sulphur- 

our,  yawning  jaws 
Of  the  seven  Southern  batteries,  armed  and  ready 

for  the  work ; 
All  the  day  and  all  the  night  long  well  were  plied 

their  greedy  maws, 
And  until  the  second  morning  br^ke  disconsolate 

and  murk. 
Fire    within    and    foes    without    them!      Yet    they 

struggled  long  and  well, 

From  beneath  their  blazing   shelter  holding  out 
against  a  host, 


194  Idyls  of  Battle 

Ere  the  colors  of  the  loyal  from  the  crest  of  Sumter 

fell, 

And  the  gallant  Seventy  slowly  left  their  well- 
defended  post ! 

April,   1861. 


NOW. 

Now  the  tender  budding  greenery  brightens  all  the 

earth  again, 
But   the    sprouting    grass   is   reddened   with    the 

angry  bloom  of  war ! 
By  the  hearthstones  of  the  nation  only  sounds  the 

wail  of  pain, 
While  our  hero  soldiers  struggle  in  the  glorious 

fight  afar. 
Thy  Nemesis,  0  Sumter!  was  the  thrill  that  shook 

the  land; 
When   the    tidings    of   thy    spoiling    brought    the 

nation  to  its  feet, 
Then   was   clenched,   with   stern   intention,   injured 

Loyalty's  right  hand; 
Its  insulted  front  was  lifted  proudly  up  the  taunt 

to  meet! 
Murmur  not  in  doubt,  my  brothers,  at  this  trial  rite 

of  blood  — 
At  this  purging   out  of   error  from  the   arteries 

of  the  land! 
Never  yet  the  walls  of  Treason  the  assault  of  Eight 

withstood : 

Ere  another  year  hath  circled  ye  shall  prove  it 
where  ye  stand ! 

April,    1864. 


Watefc-Nigiit  195 


WATCH-NIGHT. 

Did  I  frighten  you,  mother, — so  white  and  cold, 

And  so  silently  here  at  your  bed? 
I  could  not  sleep  on  this  terrible  night, 

For  the  battle  of  which  we  read. 
To  think  of  the  dead  lying  out  in  this  rain, 

Not  minding  its  dreary  fall, — 
Of  that  mad,  mad  fight  on  the  side  of  the  hill; 

And  he — he  was  in  it  all ! 

They  say  he  was  foremost  in  every  charge, 

Till  the  hardiest  held  their  breath, 
Or  paused  in  the  struggle  to  raise  a  cheer 

For  the  man  who  was  quits  with  death ! 
They  say  he  was  quiet  and  just  the  same, — 

No  paler  when  acting  his  part ; 
But  I  know,  I  know  how  he  went  away, 

Stabbed  even  to  the  inmost  heart. 

But  the  fiercest  pain  for  a  tender  soul 

Is  doubt  and  its  jealous  pride; 
Though  we  do  not  die  when  we  suffer  so, 

Till  the  faithful  are  justified. 
I  tore  his  ring  from  my  worthless  hand, 

Denying  my  name  of  wife; 
But  I  wear  him  yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 

And  I  love  him  with  all  my  life. 

I  must  go  to  him !    I  shall  never  rest 

Till  I  falter  before  his  feet; 
And  there  I  shall  die  if  he  raise  me  not. 

And  cure  me  with  kisses  sweet ! 


196  Idyls  of  Battle 

I  shall  die !  I  shall  die  if  I  may  not  look 

Once  more  in  my  hero's  eyes, 
And  see  the  fire  of  the  olden  love 

In  their  passionate  deeps  arise ! 

I  have  wronged  his  truth,  I  have  wronged  his  love, 

And  all  for  a  whispered  lie ! 
I  have  sent  him  to  wander  in  search  of  death. 

Ah,  mother,  if  he  should  die ! 
I  will  suffer  all;  I  deserve  it  all! 

But,  mother,  I'm  mad  to  go, 
And  beg  him  to  take  me  back  again, 

For  I  love  him — I  love  him  so ! 

1863. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  OUR  VICTORIES 

IN    '61- '62. 

What,  ho !  ye  valiant  wrestlers ! 

Ye  soldiers  of  the  Right! 
Full  armed  by  Truth  and  Justice 

To  battle  lawless  Might. 
Ho !  I  have  glorious  tidings ! 

Come,  list  the  tale  I  tell, 
How  the   cause   of   Union  triumphed, 

And  the  crest  of  Treason  fell. 

Too  long  this  fair  young  kingdom, 

The  Empire  of  the  West, 
Had  borne   a  blasting   stigma 

Upon  her  virgin  breast! 
Too  long  the  brazen  foreheads 

Of  a  many-headed  Wrong 
Were  lifted  up  in  triumph 

Above  a  murmuring  throng! 


The  Legend  of  Our  Victories  197 

And  the  leal  heart  of  the  patriot 

Was  heavy  for  our  shame; 
And  we  trembled  for  the  glory 

Of  our  country's  growing  fame ; 
But  a  noble-hearted  pity 

Held  back  the  righteous  blow, 
For,   alas !   we   knew   a  brother 

In  the  face  of  every  foe. 

Our  wise  men,  looking  Southward. 

Beheld   the   coming   storm; 
It  had  gathered,  it  had  ripened, 

While  they  sounded  the  alarm. 
The  pestilence   grew  fouler, 

And  no  comfort  blessed  our  eyes, 
For  the  fiend  that  sowed  this  discord 

Had  flouted  all  disguise. 

We  all  remember  Sumter, 

And  the  battle's  growing  hum, — 
How  the  noise  of  tinkling  cymbals 

Was  deadened  by  the  drum. 
Manassas  stands  a  warning 

To  our  Future  from  our  Past; 
And  these  skies  that   gleam  so  bluely 

At  Ball's  Bluff  were  overcast. 

Oh !  then  went  up  to  Heaven 

A  strong  and  mingled  sound : 
There  were  curses,  there  were  pleadings. 

And  tears  falling  to  the  ground. 
And  twin-born  Strife  and  Treason 

Went  stalking  hand  in  hand; 
And  our  friends  across  the  ocean 

Spied  the  barrenness  of  the  land. 

But  at  last  we  turned  upon  them, 

And  stood  in  proud  array; 
In  the  West  and  to  the  Southward 

Our  thunders  shook  the  day! 


198  Idyls  of  Battle 

On  either  flank  beleaguered, 
Two  foes  our  strength  divide; 

But  Disunion,  Fraud,  and  Ruin 
Fell  down  on  either  side ! 

Bravely  they  worked  together ! 

The  framers  of  the  lie 
That  teaches  we  have  struggled, 

And  succeeded — but  to  die ; 
That  teaches   our  achievements 

And  our  growing  hopes  are  nought 
That  laughs  to  scorn  the  maxims 

That  our  patriot  fathers  taught. 

We  sought  to  save  the  Union; 

They  strove  to  blot  the  name 
Of  Freedom's  chosen  country 

From  the  royal  scroll  of  fame. 
We  strove  to  save  the  record 

Wrought  out  by  sacred  hands; 
But  they  to  make  their  birthright 

The  prey  of  distant  lands. 

Ho !  planters  of  the  South  land ! 

Ho !  yeomen  of  the  North ! 
Ye  who  love  our  glorious  Union, 

Fling  its  banner  proudly  forth ! 
For  the  dastard  front  of  Treason 

Quails  beneath  this  sturdy  blow; 
And  if  we  stand  together, 

We  shall  lay  the  curser  low! 

We  won't  give  up  the  Union ! 

Go  shout  it  far  and  wide ! 
Missouri's  head  is  lifted 

Once  more  in  queenly  pride ; 
And  Tennessee,  unfettered, 

At  length  may  proudly  stand ! 
Out  with  the  hand  of  greeting, 

All  true  hearts  in  the  land! 


The  Last  War  News  199 

And  farther,  farther  Southward, 

From  ''the  dark  and  bloody  ground," 
From  the  crimson  fields  of  Arkansas, 

Our  triumph-notes  resound ! 
And  proudly  o'er  the  waters 

Our  braided  colors  fly, — 
That  flag  whose  splendor  gladdened 

Full  many  a  dying  eye ! 

Shout  for  the  glorious  Union ! 

Shout  for  the  triumph  gained! 
In  the  hour  that  gave  it  to  us 

The  star  of  Treason  waned ! 
Well  done,  staunch  hearts  and  loyal! 

We  yet  shall  win  the  day, 
And  see  this  fell  disorder 

Pass  from  the  land  away! 
Nerve !  nerve !  each  good  right  arm  again, 

And  forward  for  the  Right ! 
And  Union's  stainless  banner 

Shall  conquer  lawless  Might. 

1862. 


THE  LAST  WAR  NEWS. 

0  pale,  pale  face !    0  helpless  hands ! 

Sweet  eyes  by  fruitless  watching  wronged ; 
Yet  turning  ever  towards  the  lands 

Where  War's  red  hosts  are  thronged! 

She  shudders  when  they  tell  the  tale 
Of  some  great  battle  fought  and  won; 

Her  sweet  child  face  grows  old  and  pale, 
Her  heart  falls  like  a  stone. 


200  Idyls  of  Battle 

She  sees  no  conquering  flag  unfurled, 
She  hears  no  victory's  brazen  roar ; 

But  a  dear  face,  which  was  her  world, 
Perchance  she'll  kiss  no  more ! 

Ever  there  comes  between  her  sight 
And  the  glory  that  they  rave  about, 

A  boyish  brow  and  eyes  whose  light 
Of  splendor  hath  gone  out. 

The  midnight  glory  of  his  hair, 

Where  late  her  fingers,  like  a  flood 

Of  moonlight,  wandered, — lingering  there, — 
Is  stiff  and  dank  with  blood! 

She  must  not  shriek,  she  must  net  moan. 
She  must  not  wring  her  quivering  hands ; 

But  sitting  dumb  and  white,  alone, 
Be  bound  with  viewless  bands. 

Because  her  suffering  life  infolds 

Another  dearer,  feebler  life, 
In  death-strong  grasp  her  heart  she  holds, 

And  stills  its  torturing  strife. 

Yester  eye,  they  say,  a  field  was  won. 

Her  eyes  ask  tidings  of  the  fight; 
But  tell  her  of  the  dead  alone 

Who  lay  out  in  the  night. 

In  mercy  tell  her  that  his  name 
Was  not  upon  that  fatal  list; 

That  not  among  the  heaps  of  slain 
Dumb  are  the  lips  she's  kissed! 

0  poor  pale  child !    0  woman  heart ! 

Its  weakness  triumphed  o'er  by  strength! 
Love  teaching  pain  discipline's  art, 

And  conquering  at  length ! 

1861. 


Mitchell 


MITCHELL. 

Written  at  the  time  of  his  victories  in  the  Southwest. 

Mitchell!  strong  brain,  quick  eye,  and  steady  hand, 
Faithful  in  service,  faultless  in  command; 
Thou  favorite  son  of  science !  fit  to  stand 
Foremost  among  the  Saviours  of  the  land ; 

In  that  the  scholar's  craft,  the  captain's  skill, 
In  thee  conjoined,  work  fitting  triumphs  still; 
And  nobler  yet  the  patriotic  thrill 
Which  guides  the  master-triumphs  of  thy  will! 

God !  with  a  handful  of  such  hearted  men 
To  beard  the  wolf  of  Treason  in  his  den,— 
Men  quick  to  plan  and  strong  to  act, — and  then 
Europe  shall  ring  our  triumph  back  again! 

Onward,  my  hero !     Men  shall  catch  the  flame 
"Which  lights  thy  soul,  and  glows  again  for  shame. 
With  thee,  and  such  as  thee,  we  shall  reclaim 
The  morning  glory  of  our  empire's  fame ! 

1862. 


THE  FALL  OF  LEXINGTON,  MISSOURI 

[On  this  occasion  the  Rebels  tore   down  the  Federal   flag-,   and 
trampled   it   in   the   dust.] 

And  what  though  the  crest  of  a  brazen  revolt 
Is  reared  for  the  moment  in  insolent  joy 

O'er  the  sanctified  frrnt  of  our  glorious  cause, 
Whose  hope  and  existence  ye  burn  to  destroy? 


202  Idyls  of  Battle 

The  banner  whose  folds  ye  have  trailed  in  the  dust 
Is  sacred  in  spite  of  your  dastardly  hands; 

And  the  tale  of  your  cowardly  deed  snail  be  told 
With  hisses  and  sneers  in  the  uttermost  lands. 

In  sooth,  'twas  a  valiant  and  soldierly  act, 
Befitting  the  spirits  that  marshal  your  clan, 

To   insult   the   old  banner,   whose  folds  were   your 

shield, 
That  looked  on  the  hour  when  your  glory  began. 

That  flag  is  the  type  and  ally  of  each  deed 

That  gives  you  a  right  to  be  proud  of  the  past; 

And  with  it  ye  lay  your  inheritance  down, 

And  barter  its  worth  for  a  shame  that  shall  last. 

But  the  scorn  that  ye  cast  on  your  glorious  dead 
Shall  arise  from  the  ground  that  is  rich  with  the 
blood 

That  poured,  for  your  craven  and  cowardly  sakes, 
For  years  in  a  holy  and  martyr-like  flood. 

Think  ye  that  the  parricide's  labor  shall  thrive? 

Think  ye  that  the  brow  of  a  Cain  shall  be  blessed, 
When  full  in  the  eyes  of  a  shuddering  world 

He  stands  with  the  red  sign  of  slaughter  con 
fessed? 

The  nations  shall  rise  in  a  verdict  sublime ; 

The  voice  of  their  protest  shall  sever  the  skies; 
And  the  pride-stiffened  neck  of  Rebellion  shall  bow, 

And  the  fire  of  contempt  blast  its  insolent  eyes ! 

Then  shout  o'er  the  fall  of  that  glorious  flag, 

Exult  in  your  shame,  ere  its  punishment  lowers. 

Your  children  shall  blush  when  they  tell  of  the  day 
When  you  triumphed,  but   knew  that   the   glory 
was  ours! 

1861. 


Come  We  to  This?  203 


COME  WE  TO  THIS? 

[The    Rebels    have    discarded    the    good    old     National    Air    of 
"Yankee   Doodle,"   adopting   "Dixie"    in  its   stead.] 

What  matter  if  its  martial  strains 

record  the  triumph-breathing  story 
Of  early  Freedom's  well-fought  plains, 

And  valor  crowned  with  bays  of  glory? 
What  matter  if  its  sound  alone 

Sufficed  to  fire  the  patriot's  bosom, 
And  with  each  spirit-stirring  tone 

Exultant  hopes  sprang  into  blossom? 

What  matter  if  its  memory's  twined 

About  our  costliest  heritages, 
And  if  in  casting  it  behind 

We  blur  our  country's  proudest  pages? 
What  matter  if  its  tones  were  dear 

Unto  the  lion  heart,  undaunted, 
of  him  whose  fame  is  far  and  near, 

Where'er  our  country's  name  is  vaunted? 

AVhat  matter?    Has  each  freeborn  soul 

Become  so  strangely  tame  and  craven, 
Despite  the  floods  of  noble  blood 

In  which  its  native  seed  was  laven, 
That  we  can  brook  the  dastard  heel 

Of  Treason  on  our  crest  of  glory? 
The  despot's  sneer,  the  traitor's  steel,— 

Is  this  the  ending  of  our  story? 

1861. 


2'J4  Idyls  of  Battle 


BAKER. 

Thou  lion-fronted,  royal  man! 

Thou  of  the  swerveless  lightning  glance, 
Whose  thunderous  eloquence  outran, 

O'ertopped,  the  minds  it  did  entrance;— 
0  man,  made  regal  by  thy  might, 
The  many-chorded  soul  to  smite ! 

The  lowly  path  was  not  for  thee. 

Thy  mental  stature  towered  above 
The  wondering  eyes,  upraised  to  see 

The  man  whose  tone  and  glance  could  move 
A  people's  heart  to  love  or  hate ; 
Whose  touch  could  guide  it  like  a  fate. 

The  glory  of  his  life  was  set 

Unto  a  measure  high  and  grand; 
The  lofty  anthem  lingers  yet 

In  haunting  echoes  through  the  land; 
And,  greeted  with  a  triumph-tone, 
He  stood,  a  conqueror — alone ! 

He  fell; — and,  lo !  a  mighty  wail, 

A  cry,  sublime  in  grief  and  strength, 

Proclaimed  the  giant  lying  pale, 

His   mighty  power  undone   at  length ; 

And  for  that  wondrous  man  and  strong 

Went  up  a  nation's  funeral  song. 

For  him  a  high  applauding  tone 
Shall  linger  in  the  halls  of  Time. 

Even  as  he  stood,  he  fell — alone, 
A  warrior  in  a  strife  sublime. 

A  nation  raised  his  burial-stone, — 

He  will  not  sleep  unsung,  unknown. 

1862. 


Our  Sacrifice  205 


OUR  SACRIFICE. 


[To  those  brave  men  of  the  Fifteenth  and  Twentieth  Massa 
chusetts  Regiments  and  the  California  Battalion,  living  or 
dead,  who  took  part  in  the  battle  of  Ball's  Bluff,  this  heart- 
cry  is  dedicated.] 

Well,  the  hapless  day  is  done ! 
Well,  its  bloody  course  is  run ! 
Let  a  pall  of  blackness  hide  it 
From  the  glances  of  the  sun. 

Oh !    the    cruel,    cruel   fate ! 
Oh !  the  help  that  came  too  late ! 
Here  our  first  and  great  disaster* 
Surely  found  its  fitting  mate ! 

Ah,  the  hearts  that  bled  in  vain ! 
Ah,  the  heaps  of  loyal  slain ! 
Soft,  my  soul;  be  silent;  add  not 
Curses  to  this  bitter  pain. 

He,*  the  lion-heart  of  all, 
Holding  life  and  safety  small, 
If  his  country's  clouded  honor 
Might  be  brightened  by  his  fall. 

Oh,  ye  steadfast !  oh,  ye  brave ! 
Filling  now  one  common  grave ; 
Lo !  the  nation's  bosom  shrines  ye 
With  the  cause  ye  died  to  save! 

Shall  it,  shall  it  be  for  nought 
That  this  sacrifice  was  wrought? 

*Bull    Run. 
*Baker. 


206  Idyls  of  Battle 

Ha!  the  nation  startles  fiercely, 
Burning  at  the  craven  thought ! 

Not  until  the  hoary  flood 
That  is  purple  with  your  blood, 
On  whose  banks  your  scanty  legions 
Facing   brutal  slaughter   stood, 

From  its  ending  to  its  source 
Floweth  free  from  Rebel  force. — 
Not  until  yon  far  blue  mountains 
Have   been  purged   of   Treason's   curse,- 

Will  we  stay  the  costly  tide 
From  a  bleeding  nation's  side ; 
Blood  and  treasure  flowing  freely 
In  an  ocean  deep  and  wide? 

For  a  spirit  is  abroad 
Bright  and  terrible  with  God ; 
And  we  mark  the  troubled  waters 
Where  His  burning  feet  have  trod ! 

1861. 


UNION  FOREVER. 

Men  of  America,  press  to  your  standard ! 

Foemen  are  gathering  aneir  and  afar; 
Swear  that  your  life-blood  shall  redden  around  it. 

Ere  from  its  azure  there  vanish  a  star. 

Look  where  the  demon  of  inward  dissension 
Is  sowing  the  seeds  of  a  terrible  strife ; 

We  who  stood  firm  against  foreign  encroachment, 
Are  turning  our  hands  against  Unity's  life. 


Union  Forever  207 

Shall  our  blood-purchased  glory  vanish  forever? 

Oh !  shall  we  shame  the  pure  eye  of  the  day, 
With    a    sight    of    the    ranks    of    our    brotherhood 
broken 

Forever,  and  siding  in  hostile  array? 

Oh !  shall  the  wail  of  the  trampled  and  fettered 
Go  up  from  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 

And   the   down-trodden   heads   of   the   millions   up 
lifted 
At  the  news  of  our  destiny's  glorious  birth. 

Droop  as  the  star  of  our  Unity  fadeth, 

Arid  the  shreds  of  our  banner  are  flung  on  the 

gale; 
While   the   eye   of   the   despot   shall   gloat   o'er   the 

record 
That  tells  of  our  shame  and  our  failure  the  tale? 

How  art  thou  fallen,  0  Daughter  of  Promise ! 

From  the  throne  of  thy  lofty  and  virgin  estate, 
When  thy  children  are  drunk  with  the  blood  of  thy 
suffering, 

And  traitors  are  ringing  the  knell  of  thy  fate ! 

Yet,  there's  a  band  of  the  stanch  and  devoted, — 
Men  whose  integrity  never  was  bought; 

Deep  in  their  leal  hearts  are  graven  the  lessons 
God  and  the  deeds  of  their  fathers  have  taught. 

Strong  in  the  might  of  an  inborn  conviction, 
Only  for  God  and  the  Union  we  fight, 

Only  to  foil  the  designs  of  the  traitor, 
Only  to  vindicate  Gcd  and  the  Right! 

Union  forever !    Our  God-given  motto ; 

Union  forever !  our  voices  proclaim ; 
Union  forever !  our  women  and  children 

Rise  and  unite  in  defence  of  its  fame ! 


208  Idyls  of  Battle 

Union  forever !  and  death  to  the  traitor ! 

Be  the  bright  folds  of  our  banner  enrolled. 
Show  to  the  world  that  its  stripes  are  eternal, 

And  its  stars  like  the  stars  that  the  heavens  en 
fold. 

Union  forever !     Oh,  sons  of  your  country, 

Swell  the  proud  anthem  that  rolls  from  the  heart 

Of  our  forests  of  pine  to  the  sweeping  prairies; 
Union  forever !  we  die  ere  we  part ! 

1861. 


RESURGAM. 

Let  the  nations  talk! 

While  Freedom  droops,  with  all  her  colors  down, 
With  a  great  cloud  upon  her  old  renown  ; 
While  in  the  sunlight  traitors  dare  to  walk  ! 

It  is  the  boaster's  hour  ! 
It  is  the  time  that  separates  from  the  true 
Those  paltering  fools  who  have  not  strength  to  do 
One  honest  deed  against  an  evil 


For  single-hearted  men, 

Who  know  no  creed  but  Crusade  for  the  Right, 
Whom  smaller  interests  sway  not  in  this  fight, 
The  Cross  and  Thorns  of  Christdom  again  come. 

What  time  they  stand 
In  pillory,  while  Ignorance  may  revile, 
And  Prejudice  may  sneer  with  bigot  smile, 

And  Wrong  be  free  to  strike  with  dastard  hand. 

But  not  for  long  ! 
Is  any  night  that  waits  not  for  its  dawn? 


On  the  Dead  List  209 

From  any  work  is  God's  good  hand  withdrawn? 
Is  any  right  o'ermastered  by  the  wrong? 

As  the  Lord  liveth — No ! 
Above  the  night  of  this  most  sore  distress 
Shall  rise  the  healing  sun  of  righteousness ! 
The  harvest  is  the  surer,  being  slow ! 

1863. 


ON  THE  DEAD  LIST. 

Willis  Clare  is  dead,  they  say! 
Mother  read  it  out  to-day, 
But  I  met  the  words  half-way. 

Did  I  tremble?     Did  I  faint? 
Did  I  utter  any  plaint? 
I  was  patient  as  a  saint. 

So  I  grappled  without  sign 
With  this  master  woe  of  mine ; 
Pride  can  brace  us  more  than  wine. 

Prudent,  was  I?    Let  me  die! 

Ah !  I  cannot  act  a  lie, 

'Neath  the  pure  night's  starry  eye ! 

Oh,  to  think  this  summer  night, 
That  he  lies  so  cold  and  white! 
He— the  bravest  in  the  fight! 

And  my  name  was  on  his  lips 
When  his  blue  eyes  met  eclipse 
'Neath  death's  icy  finger-tips. 


210  Idyls  of  Battle 

Christ  in  heaven !  I  would  have  died 
Glad,  and  proud,  and  satisfied 
For  that  last  hour  at  his  side ! 

Oh,  this  bitter,  bitter  woe! 
Will  the  darkness  never  go, 
And  the  pain  that  stabs  me  so? 

I  remember  summer  nights 

On  the  Hudson's  breezy  heights, 

Full  of  wonderful  delights. 

Now  I  watch  not  for  his  tread, 
Though  the  stars  shine  overhead; 
And  they  tell  me  he  is  dead. 

I  deserve  this  bitter  one; 
In  my  pride  I  bade  him  go ; 
And  he  loved  me, — loved  me  so ! 

But  my  heart  was  full  of  pain 
As  the  clouds  are  full  of  rain, 
Though  I  would  not  turn  again  ' 

Do  you  know  of  any  grave 
Which  the  sullen  waters  lave 
With  a  dull  unending  wave? 

Over  which  the  west  wind  weaves 

Many  a  pall  of  fading  leaves, 

While  it  sobs  and  moans  and  grieves? 

Some  such  lonely  spot  unblest, 
Where  a  guilty  soul  may  rest, 
Somewhere  in  the  distant  West? 

If  such  grave  you  ever  see, — 
Emblem  of  mute  misery, — 
Think,  such  is  my  heart  in  me ! 

1864. 


Belle  Missouri  211 


BELLE  MISSOURI. 

[This  song-  has  been  set  to  music,   and  universally   adopted   by 
the  Loyalists  of  Missouri,  in  opposition  to  "My  Maryland."] 

Arise  and  join  the  patriot  train, 
Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 

They  should  not  plead  and  plead  in  vain, 
Belle  Missouri !    My  Missouri ! 

The  precious  blood  of  all  thy  slain 

Arises  from  each  reeking  plain.- 

Wipe  out  this  foul  disloyal  stain, 
Belle  Missouri !    My  Missouri ! 

Recall  the  field  of  Lexington, 
Belle  Missouri !    My  Missouri ! 

How  Springfield  blushed  beneath  the  sun, 
Belle  Missouri !    My  Missouri ! 

And  noble  Lyon  all  undone, 

His  race  of  glory  but  begun, 

And  all  thy  freedom  yet  unwon, 
Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 

They  called  thee  craven  to  thy  trust, 

Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 
They  laid  thy  glory  in  the  dust, 
Belle  Missouri !    Mv  Missouri ! 
The  helpless  prey  of  treason's  lust, 
The  helpless  mark  of  treason's  thrust, 
Nor  shall  thy  sword  in  seabbard  rust? 
Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 

She  thrills!   her  bl^od  begins  to  burn! 

Belle  Missouri !    My  Missouri ! 
She's  bruised  and  weak,  but  she  can  turn, 

Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 


212  Idyls  of  Battle 

Lo !  on  her  forehead  pale  and  stern, 

A  sign  to  make  the  traitors  mourn, 

Now  for  thy  wounds  a  swift  return, 

Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 

Stretch  out  thy  thousand  loyal  hands, 

Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 
Send  out  thy  thousand  loyal  bands, 

Belle  Missouri !    My  Missouri ! 
To  where  the  flag  of  Union  stands, 
Alone,  upon  the  blood-wet  sands, 
A  beacon  into  distant  lands, 
Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 

Up  with  the  loyal  Stripes  and  Stars, 

Belle  Missouri !    My  Missouri ! 
Down  with  the  traitor  Stars  and  Bars, 

Belle  Missouri !     My  Missouri ! 

Now,  by  the  crimson  crest  of  Mars, 

And  Liberty's  appealing  scars, 

We'll  lay  the  demon  of  these  wars, 

Belle  Missouri !    My  Missouri ! 

1862. 


DOUGLAS. 

Stout  wrestler  for  the  trampled  Right ! 
Good  warrior  in  the  desperate  fight! 
Strong  champion  of  the  Nation's  cause ! 
Steel-true  defender  of  her  laws ! 

Oh,  well  for  thee,  the  friendly  clod — 
Full  six  good  feet  of  Western  sod — 
Should  come  between  those  honest  eyes 
And  the  foul  deeds  that  here  arise ! 


Douglas  213 

Well  for  the  head  that  sleeps  so  low, 
Unhumbled  by  the  perjured  foe ; 
Well  for  the  lips  that  dared  to  speak 
The  truth  that  paled  the  traitor's  cheek! 

Oh,  well  that  they  are  mute  today, 
When  bigot  fury  holds  its  sway; 
When  Justice  lays  its  front  in  dust, 
And  might  usurps  its  sacred  trust! 

Well  that  the  patriot's  ear  hears  not 
The  curse  of  those  by  Power  forgot ! 
Gaunt  suffering,  pleading  for  surcease, 
Whose  crying  is  a  prayer  for  peace ! 

In  that  thou  died'st  with  sword  unbroken, 
With  cheek  unstained  by  shame's  hot  token; 
In  that  thou  wert  not  like  to  them, 
Who,  seeing  that  they  could  not  stem 

This  storm  of  Evil,  Hate,  and  Wrong, 
Bowed  tamely  with  the  cowering  throng ; — 
Thanks !  that  the  veteran's  brightening  fame, 
Was  saved  this  deep  and  damning  shame ' 

Thanks !  that  his  sturdy  strength,  unbowed, 
Went  out  unshamed,  unshorn,  uncowed! 
That,  seeing  wrongs  he  could  not  mend, 
And  brutish  errors  without  end, 

His  keen  and  comprehensive  brain 

Was  lashed  to  madness  by  such  pain; — 

So,  falling  with  his  harness  on, 

We  are  but  glad  that  he  is  gone. 

Thy  sorrows  will  not  haunt  him  in  his  grave, 

0  land,  for  which  he  died,  but  could  not  save ! 

1861. 


214  Idyls  of  Battle 


THE  SNOW  IN  OCTOBER. 

The  snow  is  falling  abroad, 

O'er  meadow  and  moor; 
Drifting  silently,  high  and  white, 

O'er  the  sill  of  our  cottage  door. 

It  falls  on  a  lonely  grave 

Lying  away  to  the  West, 
Where  a  hero  heart  is  mouldering  away, — 

The  heart  that  loved  me  best ! 

I  think  of  the  closed  blue  eyes, 

And  the  beautiful  shining  hair; 
And  the  fresh  snow  heaped  o'er  one  beloved. 

Alone  in  the  darkness  there ! 

The  aster's  heroic  bloom 

And  the  maple's  scarlet  wreath 
Are  crushed  alike  by  the  cold,  white  hand 

Of  this  terrible  icy  death. 

Oh,  cruel,  untimely  snow ! 

You  have  found  him  where  he  lies. 
It  was  too  early  to  fold  your  shroud 

.Over  my  soldier's  eyes. 

I  could  bear  to  leave  him  alone 

With  the  sweet  south  wind  and  the  flowers, 
But  not  with  the  snow  and  the  blighted  leaves 

Of  these  desolate  autumn  hours ! 

Oh !  then  I  could  think  no  more, 
And  the  pent-up  grief  grew  wild, 


The  Snow  in  October  215 

And  I  bowed  my  throbbing,  aching  head, 
And  wept  like  a  weary  child! 

And  I  said,  "The  world  is  cold, 

And  terribly  lone  and  wide ; 
How  can  I  walk  its  dreary  way, 

With  no  stay  but  my  woman's  pride? 

"I  shall  pass  by  cheerful  homes 
Which  Love  hath  made  so  bright, 

But  I  may  not  stay;  I  must  walk  alone 
In  the  darkness  and  the  night! 

"Moan,  moan  aloud, 

0  desolate  heart  of  mine ! 
But  spoken  words  can  never  give  vent 

To  an  agony  like  to  thine." 
The  snow  is  falling  abroad. 

Silently,   softly   and  slow, 
But  the  tears  that  rain  from  despairing  eyes 

Fall  faster  than  the  snow; 


I  watched  it  through  my  tears, 

Till  the  grief -throbs  grew  less  sharp ; 

And  I  thought  of  a  gleaming,  golden  crown, 
And  a  sweetly  sounding  harp ! 

I  thought  of  the  Great  White  Throne, 
And  the  shining  robes  they  wear; 

And  the  perfect  peace  of  the  purified  ones, 
And  the  glory  reigning  there  ! 


The  snow  is  falling  abroad, 

Tenderly,   soft  and   slow; 
And  the  quiet  throbs  of  my  heart  keep  time 

To  the  musical  fall  of  the  snow! 

1863. 


216  Idyls  of  Battle 


TO  A  HERO,  WITH  A  SWORD 

LMcClellan   in   1861.] 

Take  it !  from  a  woman's  hand : 
Draw  it !  for  a  suffering  land : 
Sheathe  it  only  when  we  stand 
Shouting   victory! 

Childhood's  lisp   and   woman's   tears, 
Pulse  of  pride,  affection's  fears, 
Health  of  youth  and  strength  of  years, 
Blend  in  this  appeal. 

And  though  we,  who  bid  thee  go, 
May  not  with  thee  breast  the  foe, 
Tears  as  dear  as  blood  shall  flow, 
Champion  of  our  homes ! 

Lo !  our  clinging  hands  untwine, 
And  no  longer  fetter  thine ; 
For  our  land  we  all  resign, — 
So,  we  let  thee  go ! 

Take  it !  decked  by  woman's  skill, — 
She  whose  gentle  min'stries  still 
In  the  hour  of  trial  fill 

Sterner  souls  with  calm ! 

Take  it !  from  a  woman's  hand  : 
Draw  it !  for  a  suffering  land : 
Sheathe  it  only  when  we  stand 
Shouting  victory ! 


Vicksburg  217 


TO  A  PATRIOT. 

Friend !    In  this  fearful  struggle  for  the  Right, 
Oh,  brother-wrestler  in  our  common  cause ! 
Upholder  of  our  rudely  trampled  laws ! 
Good  soldier  in  the  fight! 

I  stretch  to  thee  a  not  unworthy  hand, 
In  that  my  soul  is  large  enough  to  know 
And  feel  the  mighty  truths  which  nerve  thee  so 
To  battle  for  our  land! 

I  give  thee  greeting  through  my  rising  tears ; 
I  say,  God  speed  thee  on  thy  venturous  way ! 
I  say,  if  we  should  win  this  desperate  day, 
Through  the  thick-coming  years 

A  voice  shall  utter  how  thy  strength  went  forth 
To  nerve  thine  upright  heart,  thine  honest  hand,— 
Thou,  noblest  of  the  brothers  of  our  band, 
The  heroes  of  the  North ! 

1864. 


VICKSBURG. 

Victory !   Victory ! 
The  resurrected  Right  shall  stand, 
A  tower  of  strength  unto  the  land. 
And  when  our  spirits  faint  and  fail, 
And  long  endeavors  leave  us  pale, 
Across  the  lists  of  death  shall  flash 
That  memory  of  rare  renown, — 


218  Idyls  of  Battle 

How  for  so  many  days  and  nights 
We  lay  around  the  'leaguered  town. 
Victory !     Victory ! 

No  transient,  momentary  gleam, 
As  fitful  as  a  fever  dream ; — 
The  grand  fruition  of  a  work 
Cemented  into  moveless  strength 
With  loyal  blood  and  loyal  breath, 
And  triumphing  o'er  Wrong  at  length. 
Victory!     Victory! 

Sure  and  slow !     Sure  and  slow  ! 
While  the  seasons  came  and  went, 
The  iron  man  of  swerveless  thought* 
Planned  and  wrought !     Planned  and  wrought ! 
The  waiting  spring  burst  into  bloom, 
Nor  saw  the  fated  city's  doom; 
Midsummer's  breath  was  on  the  air, 
Before   suspense   was   broken  there. 

Sure  and  slow  !     Sure  and  slow  ! 

Victory !     Victory ! 
Our  triumph  shook  the.  very  air  ! 
One  loyal,  universal  shout, 
In  which  the  Nation's  heart  went  out 
For  Wrong  was  down,  and  Right  was  up, 
And  exultation  everywhere. 

Victory !     Victory ! 

*Grant. 


Loyalty's  Last  Effort  219 


LOYALTY'S     LAST     EFFORT. 

[He  did  not  speak  or  move  after  receiving  the  fatal  wound, 
until  a  comrade,  bending  over  him,  said,  "What  cheer  for 
the  Union?"] 

Life's  sands  were  ebbing  fast, 

And  darkness  wrapped  his  failing  mind  about ; 
And  then  in  gloom,  at  last, 

Memory's  spent  lamp  went  out. 

And  thus  he  lay, 

While  slowly  dragged  along  each  weary  hour; 
Knowing  not  night  or   day, 

Suffering,  bereft  of  power. 

And  Love  its  vigil  kept, — 

Love,  whose  heroic  spirit  f  altereth  not ! 
And  one,  his  dearest,  there  in  anguish  wept, 

Because  she  was  forgot. 

Dear  hands  were  on  his  brow, 

True  eyes  in  anxious  pity  sought  his  own: 
"Dearest!  dost  thou  not  know  me  now?" 

Alas  !   he  knew  not  one  ! 

Another  came, 

Grasping  his  poor  worn  hand  with  cheering  tone : 
"Knowest  thou  not  me?"   The  silence  was  the  same; 

He  groped  in  gloom  alone. 

"One  question  more, — 

Hath  no  last  prayer  for  Freedom's  deathless  cause? 
0  patriot  heart,  so  bravely  stanch  of  yore !" 

They  bent  in  breathless  pause. 


220  Idyls  of  Battle 

And  then,  oh,  then! 

It  seemed  as  if  a  blaze  of  glory  bright 
Had  cleft  the  quickly  gathering  gloom  in  'twain, 

And  swept  away  the  night. 

The  dull  eye  gleamed, 

The  inane  face  was  lighted  up  with  joy; 
O'er  all  a  grand  celestial  radiance  beamed, 

Which  death  could  not  destroy: 

"God  s^ve  the  trampled  Right ! 

God  keep  aloft  our  glorious  Stripes  and  Stars! 
Union  forever  !     Comrades,  to  the  fight !" 

Ended  were  all  his  wars. 

1862. 


AN  APPEAL 

IN  FAVOR  OF  A  GRAND  MISSISSIPPI   VALLEY  SANITARY 

FAIR. 

[Read  before  the  General  Assembly  of  the  loyal  men  and 
women  of  St.  Louis,  convened  at  the  Mercantile  Library, 
February  1,  1864,  by  Professor  Amasa  McCoy,  of  Washing 
ton,  D.  C.] 

Where  the  Mississippi's  darkly  troubled  waters 

Roll  their  tawny  waves  along; 

And  the  South  land's  ever  warm,  but  wilful  daugh 
ters 

Change  to  sighing  all  their  song ; 
Far  away  from  any  help  or  friendly  soothing, 

They  are  dying,  day  by  day. — 
Without  love  or  any  tender  hand  for  smoothing 

The  last  frown  of  death  away ! 

Who  are  dying?    Who  are  falling  in  their  places, 
Stabbed  by  pestilence  and  want ; 


An  Appeal  221 

With  a  firm  resolve  upon  their  pallid  faces, 

Which  Death  can  never  daunt? 
Who  are  tracking  from  the  West  land  to  the  South 

land 

A  free  passage  in  their  blood? 

Who  have  never  turned  their  failing  footsteps  home 
ward, 
Nor  faltered  where  they  stood? 

Loyal  men,  who  make  the  sinews  of  this  nation, 

Who  keep  alive  the  throbbings  of  its  heart! 
Royal  heroes!  without  thought  of  rank  or  station, 

By  the  God  of  battles  called  and  set  apart ! 
The  champions  of  this  crucified  Republic, 

The  flower  and  the  glory  of  the  land! 
And  shall  no  help  nor  any  sign  of  greeting 

Go  to  cheer  them  where  they  stand? 

In  hospitals  and  in  camps,  so  thickly  .crowded, 

They  are  suffering  life  away, 
With  no  blessed  touch  of  Home  to  balm  and  soften 

The  pain  which  maketh  gray ! 
Oh,  ye  daughters  !     Oh,  ye  sisters !    Oh,  ye  mothers  ! 

Are  ye  haunted  by  their  eyes? — 
The  weary,  dying  looks  of  sons  and  brothers, 

Who  shall  never  more  arise ! 

Let  us  help  them !    We,  who  sit  in  careless  comfort, 

In  our  happy,  cheerful  homes, — 
Shall  we  leave  our  brave  defenders  pining,  dying, 

For  the  help  that  never  comes? 
Oh !  remember  that  the  quiet  of  each  hearthstone 

Is  purchased  with  their  blood ; 

And   for   us   they   wear    the    cross    and   thorns    of 
Christhood 

In  their  noble  martyr  mood ! 

Let  us  help  them !    Oh,  ye  hearts  of  loyal  women ! 
For  your  hands  is  not  the  sword! 


222  Idyls  of  Battle 

To  heal  and  not  to  wound,  your  blessed  mission, 

Handmaidens  of  the  Lord ! 
Be  the  Marys  of  this  suffering  Republic; 

Take  your  places  at  its  feet; 
Ye  are  gentle,  and  your  hands  have  skill  in  healing, 

And  your  words  are  pure  and  sweet ! 

Ye  loyal  men,  who  love  the  Nation's  welfare, 

Help  us  freely,  without  thought; 
Strengthen   well   the   hands   by   which   this   fearful 
ransom 

For  Freedom's  cause  is  wrought. 
Oh,  loyal  hearts !  behold  your  country's  altar 

Awaits  your  sacrifice ; 

Through  your  offerings,  the  pl:dg?  of  its  redemp 
tion, 

Shall  its  new-born  glory  rise ! 

1864. 


TRUTH  IS  INVINCIBLE. 

(VERITAS  VINCIT.) 
[Motto  on  the  banner  presented  to  a  Regiment.] 

Veritas  Vincit !     Our  soul-stirring  motto  ! 

All  worthy  to  wave  o'er  the  breadth  of  the  world ; 
The  banner  that  bears  it  aloft  is  victorious, 

And  never  in  sorrow  or  shame  shall  be  furled. 

Veritas  Vincit !     Our  God-given  promise  ! 

Before  it  the  forehead  of  evil  must  quail; 
Though   wrong    may    enshroud    it,    and    guilt   may 
becloud  it, — 

A  God  is  its  author,  it  never  can  fail! 


Ranked  Higher  223 

Veritas  Vincit !    In  triumph  proclaim  it !  , 

0  knight  of  the  holy,  the  pure,  and  the  true! 

0  warrior!    O  poet!    0  Christian!    0  statesman! 
O  friend  of  the  right  here's  a  motto  for  you. 

Veritas  Vincit !     There's  life  in  its  music  ! 

Be  it  blazoned  in  glory  on  every  true  breast; 
And  leal  hearts  respond  to  its  m  igical  accents, 

From  the  North  to  t'.ie  South,  from  the  East  to 
the  West! 

1864. 


RANKED  HIGHER. 

He  fell  as  a  soldier  should  fall,— 

He  died  as  a  hero  should  die, — 
With  his  sword  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  to  the  foe, 

And  the  victory-flash  in  his  eye ! 
And  proudly,  in  spite  of  its  pain, 

Swells  the  patriot's  spirit  for  him ; 
For  the  bays  that  we  lay  on  this  passionless  brow 

No  frost  of  the  Future  shall  dim. 

He  left  us,  too  early,  alas! 

The  valiant  of  heart  and  of  hand; 
But  the  tears  of  the  pure  and  the  blood  of  the  brave 

Must  flow  for  the  life  of  the  land. 
And  say,  shall  the  poisonous  root 

Or  Treason  e'er  thrive  in  the  soil 
Now  red  with  the  blood  of  our  princeliest  Ii3arts, 

And  rich  with  our  treasure  and  toil? 

Ye  sons  of  your  country,  awake  ! 

Take  the  path  that  your  heroes  have  trod  ! 
Your  noblest  and  dearest  have  given  their  lives,— 

Owe  ye  nothing  to  right  and  to  God? 
If  your  martyred  are  dear  to  your  hearts, 


224  Idyls  of  Battle 

Let  them  live  in  the  blows  ye  shall  deal; 
Pledge  remembrance   of  those*  on  the  hilt  of  the 

sword, 
Whose  hearts  were  as  true  as  its  steel. 

1863. 


THE  SNOW  AT  FREDERICKSBURG. 

Drift  over  the  slopes  of  the  sunrise  land, 

0  wonderful,  wonderful  snow ! 
Oh,  pure  as  the  breast  of  a  virgin  saint! 

Drift  tenderly,  soft,  and  slow, 
Over  the  slopes  of  the  sunrise  land, 

And  into  the  haunted  dells 
Of  the  forests  of  pine,  where  the  sobbing  winds 

Are  tuning  their  memory  bells; — 

Into  the  forests  of  sighing  pines, 

And  over  those  yellow  slopes 
That  seem  but  the  work  of  the  cleaving  plough, 

But  cover  so  many  hopes! 
They  are  many  indeed,  and  straightly  made, 

Not  shapen  with  loving  care ; 
But  the  souls  let  out  and  the  broken  blades 

May  never  be  counted  here ! 

Fall  over  those  lonely  hero  graves, 

O  delicate-dropping  snow! 
Like  the  blessing  of  God's  unfaltering  love 

On  the  warrior  heads  below; 
Like  the  tender  sigh  of  a  mother's  soul, 

As  she  waiteth  and  watched  for  one 
Who  will  never  come  back  from  the  sunrise  land 

When  this  terrible  war  is  done. 

*The  martyrs  of  Fredericksburg-. 


The  Snow  at  Fredericksburg  225 

And  here,  where  lieth  the  high  of  heart, 

Drift,  white  as  the  bridal  veil 
That  will  never  be  worn  by  the  drooping  girl 

Who  sitteth  afar,  so  pale. 
Fall,  fast  as  the  tears  of  the  suffering  wife, 

Who  stretcheth  despairing  hands 
Out  to  the  blood-rich  battle-fields 

That  crimson  the  eastern  sands. 

Fall  in  thy  virgin  tenderness, 

0  delicate  snow!  and  cover 
The  graves  of  our  heroes,  sanctified, 

Husband,  and  son,  and  lover. 
Drift  tenderly  over  those  yellow  slopes, 

And  mellow  our  deep  distress, 
And  put  us  in  mind  of  the  shriven  souls, 

And  their  mantles  of  righteousness. 

1863. 


226  Idyls  of  Battle 


THE  BATTLE  OF  GETTYSBURG. 

The  days  of  June  were  nearly  done ; 
The  fields,  with  plenty  overrun, 
Were  ripening-  'neath  the  harvest  sun, 
In  fruitful  Pennsylvania. 

Sang-  birds  and  children,  "All  is  well !" 
When,  sudden,  over  hill  and  dell, 
The  glocm  of  coming  battle  fell 
On  peaceful  Pennslyv?nia ! 

Through  Marjdand's  historic  land, 
With  boastful  tongue  and  spoiling  hand, 
They  burst — a  fierce  and  famished  band- 
Right  into  Pennsylvania ! 
In   Cumberland's  romantic  vale 
Was  heard  the  plundered  farmer's  wail; 
And  every  mother's  cheek  was  pale, 
In  blooming  Pennsylvania ! 

With  taunt  and  jeer,  and  shout  and  song, 
Through  rustic  towns  they  paised  along, 
A  confident  and  braggart  throng, 

Through  frightened  Pennsylvania ! 

The  tidings  startled  hill  and  glen ; 
Up  sprang  our  hardy  Northern  men, 
And  there  was  speedy  travel  then, 
All  into  Pennsvlvania ! 


The  Battle  of  Gettysburg  227 

The  foe  laughed  out  in  open  scorn, 
For  Union  men  were  coward-born ! 
And  then — they  wanted  all  the  corn 
That  grew  in  Pennsylvania ! 


It  was  the  languid  hour  of  noon, 
When  all  the  birds  were  out  of  tune, 
And  Nature  in  a  sultry  swoon, 
In  pleasant  Pennsylvania, — - 

When,  sudden  o'er  the  slumbering  plain, 
Red  flashed  the  battle's  fiery  rain, 
The  volleying  cannon  shook  again 
The  hills  of  Pennsylvania! 

Beneath  that  curse  of  iron  hail, 
That  threshed  the  plain  with  flashing  flail, 
Well  might  the  stoutest  soldier  quail 
In  echoing  Pennsylvania ! 

Then,  like  a  sudden  summer  rain, 
Storm-driven  o'er  the  darkened  plain, 
They  burst  upon  our  ranks  amain, 
In  startled  Pennsylvania ! 

We  felt  the  old,  ancestral  thrill, 
From  sire  to  sen  transmitted  still, 
And  fought  for  Freedom  with  a  will, 
In  pleasant  Pennsylvania ! 

The  breathless  shock, — the  maddened  toil,— 
The  sudden  clinch, — the  sharp  recoil, — 
And  we  were  masters  of  the  soil, 
In  bloody  Pennsylvania ! 

To  westward  fell  the  beaten  foe ; 
The  growl  of  battle,  hoarse  and  low, 


228  Idyls  of  Battle 

Was  heard  anon,  but  dying  slow, 
In  ransomed  Pennsylvania ! 

Sou'westward,  with  the  sinking  sun, 
The  cloud  of  battle,  dense  and  dun, 
Flashed  into  fire, — and  all  was  won 
In  joyful  Pennsylvania! 

But  ah,  the  heaps  of  loyal  slain! 
The  bloody  toil !  the  bitter  pain ! 
For  those  who  shall  not  stand  again 
In  pleasant  Pennsylvania! 

Back  through  the  verdant  valley  lands, 
Fast  fled  the  foe,  in  frightened  bands, 
With  broken  swords  »nd  empty  hands, 
Out  of  Pennsylvania ! 

1863. 


THE  GRAVES  OF  GETTYSBURG. 

[National  Cemetery  at  Gettysburg.] 

Let  us  lay  them  where  they  fell, 
When  their  work  was  done  so  well ! 

Dumb   and   stricken, — leaving   others 
All  the  glorious  news  to  tell. 

All  the  yellow  harvest  field, 
Cursed  with  a  crimson  yield, 

'Neath  the  thrusting  in  of  sickles, 
As  the  battle  waxed  or  reeled ! 

They,  with  faces  to  the  foe, 

Lost  to  pain,  and  peace,  and  woe, 

Armored  in  the  inspiration 
Of  the  old  heroic  glow, 


The   Graves   of   Gettysburg  2J9 

Rushing  grandly  unto  death! 
Eyes  ablaze  and  'bated  breath, — 

Second-sighted  for  the  future, — 
Here  they  piled  the  trampled  heath ! 

Here  for  Liberty  they  stood, 
Writ  their  records  in  their  blood, 
On  the  forehead   of  the   epoch, 
In  a  grand  historic  mood ! 

Let  us  lay  them  side  by  side, 
In  their  awful  martyr  pride; 

They  will  slumber  well  and  sweetly, 
Spite  of  wailing  far  and  wide. 

And  their  story  shall  be  told 
When  this  Present,  gray  and  old, 
Loses  each  distinctive  feature 
In  the  Future's  ample  fold. 

Well,  the  work  was  fitly  done ! 
Well,  the  day  was  proudly  won ! 

But, — this  nook  that  bloomed  with  battle, 
There's  no  rarer  'neath  the  sun! 


Let  us  lay  them  where  they  fell, 
When  their  work  was  done  so  well ! 

In  the  martyr's  noble  silence, 
Leaving  us  the  tale  to  tell. 

1863. 


230  Idyls  of  Battle 


THE  RANSOMED  BANNER. 


[Asa  W.  Blanchard,  Sergeant-Major  Nineteenth  Regiment 
Indiana  Volunteers,  was  killed  at  Gettysburg,  Wednesday, 
July  the  1st,  while  rescuing  the  colors  of  the  company, 
(which  had  been  left  behind  when  the  regiment  was  ordered 
to  retreat,  four  color- bearers  having  been  shot  down,)  and 
which  he  succeeded'  in  saving.] 

Four  times  the  banner  of  the  free 

Had  lowered  its  front  at  Treason's  will, — 

Four  times,  victorious,  from  the  dust 
It  saw  our  arms  triumphant  still. 

And  every  time  its  folds  went  down, 

A  hero  soul  went  up  to  God; 
Yet  swift  the  fatal  place  was  filled, 

And  still  our  colors  waved  abroad. 

The  place  was  slippery  with  our  blood, 
Where  we  fell,  fighting  for  our  land ! 

We  dropped  about,  like  withered  leave*,, 
And  could  no  longer  make  a  stand.  » 

"Retreat !"     We,  chafing  at  the  word, 

Thrilled  through  and  through  with  loyal  shame, — 
In  sullen  gloom  we  wheeled  about, 

Our  souls  with  fierce  regret  aflame ! 

When  one,  a  noble,  fair-faced  boy, 

Whom  Fate  had  nurtured  for  that  hour, — 

He  ignorant  of  his  high  emprise, — 
Sprang  up,  full-statured,  into  power. 

The  ancient  thrill  of  prophet  flame, 
The  spirit  of  our  primal  men, 


Bringing  Him  Home  231 

Transfiguring  our  common  clay, 

Flashed  through  the  youthful  hero  then ! 

"Our  flag !  our  flag  forever,  boys !" 

He  tore  it  from  the  spoiler's  hand ; 
One  moment  o'er  his  dauntless  head 

It  waved, — the  glory  of  the  land ! 

And  then ! — young  martyr  of  the  West, 
Our  tears  must  drown  the  tribute-song; 

But  ever  shall  thy  memory  live, 

While  Right  shall  battle  with  the  Wrong! 

1863. 


BRINGING  HIM  HOME ! 

[Col.    ,    who    led    a    charge    at    Pittsburg    Landing,    was 

reported    to   be    alive    and   well    at    the    very    time    when    his 
body  was  being  taken  to  his  family.] 

Why,  mother!   What's  the  matter?   How  you  stare! 

Why  won't  you  let  me  see  the  letter,  too? 

Why  do  you  hide  it?     'Tis  from  Henry  Gray, 

And  so  there  must  be  news  from  the  battle-field, — • 

Perhaps  a  word  of  dearest  Alfred,  too ! 

He  has  not  written, — he's  too  busy  now, — 

My  brave  !  my  soldier  !  loyal  lion-heart ! 

Forever  foremost  in  the  advancing  ranks. 

He  was,  I  know,  among  the  very  first 

To  front  the  foe  and  drive  him  from  his  lair. 

I  read  it  in  the  paper  yesterday,  how  the  stanch 

Seventh 
Swooped  upon  the  foe,  and  backed  their  Colonel  in 

his  brilliant  charge. 

And  he?     He  was  not  hurt;  they're  sure  of  that. 
I  breathed  not,  moved  not,  till  I  read  so  far; 
And  then  I  fell  all  quivering  on  my  knees, 


232  Idyls  of  Battle 

Not  to  pray,  but  weep  out  all  my  thankfulness. 

And  then  my  life  was  shaken  with  the  rush 

Of  the  exultant  blood  that  fired  my  face, 

Because  my  soul  stood  proudly  up  and  said: 

"This  hero  whom  his  brethren  honor  so, — 

This  man  on  whom  the  nation's  eyes  are  turned, — 

Is  mine,  my  husband !" — 

What  is  it,  mother?    Nay!     I'll  see  it  too ! 

It  is  not  fair  to  jest  and  cheat  me  now; 

'Tis  pitiful,  trifling  with  a  hungry  soul. 

Give  me  the  letter.     Why !  how  white  you  are ! 

No  trifling  now !  I  will  know  what  it  means ! 

"Bringing    him    home!"      Dear    God! — My    life! — 

What's  here? 
Bringing  him  home !     Why  should  they  bring  him 

home? 

Why,  what's  the  matter  with  my  foolish  head? 
There's  something  snapped  inside  of  it,  I  think. 
Lies  !  lies !  lies  !   I  don't  believe  it, — not  a  word  of  it ! 
They've  forged  this  letter  just  to  frighten  me; 
There's  some  mistake,  they  mean  another  man. 
Smile,  sweet  my  mother !  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
And  tell  me  for  my  life's  sake  I  am  right. 

The  world's  all  dark, — my  soul! 

The  day  was  bright  a  little  while  agone ! 

Well!    well!    I'm   hurt   so   deep    I   cannot   feel   the 

smart. 

Let  me  lie  down  and  hide  my  face  somewhere, 
In  some  dark  place,  and  that  is  all  I  want. 

No  words  !   No  words  !   You  jar  me  when  you  speak  ; 

I  never  want  to  see  the  light  again ! 

He's   dead,  you   say?     Well,   then,   the   world's   all 

dead ; 
Let  me  be  dead,  too  !— 

Bringing  him  home  !     My  pride  !  my  sweet !  my  all ! 
He  wrote  me  he  was  coming;  and  all  day 


Preaching  in  Camp  233 

I  sat  and  listened  for  his  homeward  feet. 

He  said,  "Sweet  wife !"  one  little  week  ago, — 

His  farewell  kiss  is  warm  upon  my  mouth ; 

And  now? — They's  bringing  him  home! 

Why !  there's  his  letter  on  the  table  there, — 

His  very  last !  and  the  tender  hand  that  wrote 

Will  never  stroke  my  nestling  head  again; 

And  when  I  kiss  him  he'll  not  kiss  me  back ; 

And  when  I  suffer  he'll  not  comfort  me. 

God !  are  you  just  ?    You  knew  he  was  my  all ! 

And  so  ! — they're  bringing  him  home  ! 

I  wonder  if  the  violets  are  all  dead, — 

His  eyes  were  like  them! 

Well,  if  their  roots  are  planted  on  our  graves, 

They'll  blossom  blue  and  thick,  this  time  next  year. 

Oh,  my  dead  soldier !     Oh,  my  life's  one  love ! 

I  think  I  could  have  borne  it  better  if 

You'd  kissed  me  only  once  before  you  died ! 

Say,  do  you  miss  me,  darling,  up  in  heaven? 

I  want  you  so,  that  if  God  lets  me  go, 

I'll  leave  the  world  to  find  you, — 

I  cannot  wait  until  they  "bring  you  home." 


PREACHING  IN  CAMP. 

The  rich  light 

Fell  tenderly  and  like  a  heaven-sent  blessing 
Upon  the  prayerful,  upturned  faces 

Of  a  great  multitude. 

The  musical  swell 

Of  song  sublime  pealed  out  its  triumph  glad; 
And  my  rapt  soul  went  out  upon  the  wings, 
The  viewless  wings  of  melody,  and  left 

This  weary  land, 


234  Idyls  of  Battle 

And  sought  a  glorious  one  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  life  is  love,  and  love  is  infinite ; 
Where  shadows  never  come  to  dim  the  light 
Of  perfect  blessedness. 

The  music  ceased, 

And  looking  up,  I  saw,  through  lingering  tears, 
A  wan,  half  spiritual  form, — an  earnest  face, 
Whose  greatest  beauty  was  its  intense  look 

Of  self-devotedness. 

He  spoke,  and  then  it  seemed 
As  if  that  living  mass  had  but  one  heart, — 
One  mighty  quivering,  throbbing  heart, — 
And  each  word  pierced  it  through. 

And  strong  men  cowered 
Before  his  searching  words,  and  every  eye 
Was  drawn  to  his,  and  helpless  hands  were  wrung, 
And  tears  welled  up  unbidden,— stranger  guests 
To  eyes  unused  to  weep,  and  the  rent  heart, 
The  mighty  heart  of  that  great  multitude, 

Sent  up  its  terrible  wail. 

And  then  at  last 

He  stood  all  silent,  weary,  pale,  and  spent, 
And  quivering  with  emotion.  Not  a  sound 
Was  heard  within  the  camp  save  murmured  prayer 

And  stifled  sobs  and  groans. 
Until,  with  face  serene  and  sanctified, 
He  raised  his  hands  and  said   all  solemnly: 

"Now,  let  us  pray." 

A  holy  silence  fell  • 

Upon  us  then.     I  know  not  what  he  said ; 
I  know  not  how  he  prayed;  I  only  know 
I  felt  his  words  within  my  inmost  soul, 
And  bowed  in  awe,  for  God  was  very  near. 

1861. 


Jefferson   Davis  235 


JEFFERSON  DAVIS. 

Traitor  !     Ye  !     Upon  thy  brow 

Guilt's  dark  shades  are  lowering  fast. 
Fame !  what  is  it  to  thee  now  ? 
All  its  serpent  wiles  are  past. 
Thou  dost  feel- 
O'er  thee  steal 

Dire  despair;  'twill  soon  dissever 
All  life's  joy  from  thee  forever! 

Traitor !    Aye  !     What  made  thee  so  ? 

Couldst  thou  act  this  craven  part, 
Thus  in  hellish  wisdom  grow, 
With  no  demon  in  thy  heart? 
He  was  there, 
And  each  snare 

Told  upon  thy  weak  resistance, 
Till  thy  soul  was  past  assistance. 

For  I  cannot  think  a  mortal, 

With  God's  seal  upon  his  brow, 
Thus  could  stand  within  the  portal 
Of  the  Inferno  ;  heavy  woe 
Thou  wilt  lay 
On  the  day 

When  the  fiend,  with  deep  beguiling, 
Brought  thee  o'er  to  hear  his  wiling.  „ 

Traitor  ! — to  the  noblest,  dearest 

Interests  of  human  life ! 
Traitor! — to  the  truest,  nearest, 
Who  stood  by  thee  in  the  strife ! 
All  is  o'er, 
Ah !  no  more 


236  Idyls  of  Battle 

Life,  its  hues  from  fancy  taking, 
Shall  seem  fresh  with  each  awaking. 

And  thy  sin  shall  haunt  thy  slumber, 

Cankering  all  the  joy  of  sleep; 
And  remorse  shall  make  thee  number 
Every  breath  with  anguish  deep. 
In  despair 
Thou  wouldst  tear 
From  thy  soul  life's  hateful  fetter, 
Couldst  thou  hope  thy  lot  to  better. 

1861. 


THE  PRESIDENT'S  PROCLAMATION 

AUTHORIZING   THE   MUSTERING  INTO    SERVICE   OF 
COLORED  REGIMENTS. 

Lift  up  the  bowed,  desponding  head, 

O  long-enduring  race ! 
Let  the  meek  sufferance  of  your  eyes 

Abash  the  tyrant's  face. 

Take  courage,  0  despairing  race ! 

The  tides  of  fortune  turn, 
When  white  men  take  in  kindly  clasp 

The  hand  they  used  to  spurn! 

Go  into  battle  side  by  side 

With  men  of  fairer  hue ; 
We  will  not  hinder  by  our  scorn 

The  work  you  have  to  do ! 

Despised,  rejected,  cast  away, 

Ye  are  God's  children  yet! 
And  on  the  foreheads  of  your  race 

His  mercy-seal  is  set! 

1863. 


A  Greeting  for  a  New  Year  237 


A  GREETING  FOR  A  NEW  YEAR. 

Come  in  !   come  in ! 
Thou  shining  messenger  of  God ! 

Untroubled  yet  by  grief  or  sin, 
Thy  weary  pilgrimage  untrod. 

Thy  unsunned  brow  is  beautified, 
And  crowned  with  glory  by  His  grace ; 

He  breathes  the  blessing  of  His  love 
Upon  thy  young,  unwritten  face. 

Come  in !  come  in ! 
For  millions  of  impatient  hands 

Are  stretched  to  draw  the  stranger  in, 
From  sunrise  unto  sunset-lands. 

The  dusky  children  of  the  South, 
With  fair-haired  Northmen,  wait  to  press 

Upon  thy  rich  unsullied  mouth 
The  greeting  of  their  happiness! 

Come  in!  come  in! 
And  let  thy  brows  be  olive  bound, 

A  hazel  wand  thy  hand  within, 
And  time  thy  footsteps  to  the  sound 

Of  breathing  lyre,  in  measure  sweet; 
So  shall  these  notes  of  ruffian  war 

Die  out  abashed,  in  silence  meet, 
And  Love  become  our  guiding  star. 

Come  in!  come  in! 
And  let  thy  scng  be  sweet  and  mild; 

So,  haply,  hearing  thou  shalt  win, 
And  calm  this  storm  of  passion  wild, 

And  bid  this  jarring  discord  cease, 


C8  Idyls  of  Battle 

To  the  grand  chorus  of  our  song 

Restore  the  missing  voice  of  Peace, 
And  crush  the  many-headed  Wrong ! 

Come  in !  come  in ! 
We  crown  thee  with  our  holiest  prayers, 

Almost  to  suffering  akin, 
For  they  are  breathed  through  suppliant  tears. 

We  crown  thee  with  a  reverent  hand, 
That  gives  its  nearest,  dearest  gift, — 

A  wish — that  from  our  troubled  land 
Thy  coming  may  the  shadows  lift ! 

Come  in !  come  in! 
We'll  pledge  thee  in  a  draught  divine, — 

A  rarer,  costlier  ne'er  hath  been, — 
And  Hope  shall  bear  the  blushing  wine. 

It  mantles  with  the  high  resolve 
Of  many  a  noble  patriot  heart, 

No  matter  who  may  traitor  prove, 
We  trust  in  God  and  do  our  part! 

1864. 


A  SUPPLICATION. 

Dear  Lord !  our  wandering  feet 
Come  to  Thy  mercy-seat; 
Oh,  let  Thy  favor  greet 

Our  poor  endeavor ! 
Turn  not  away  Thy  face, 
Let  not  the  dwelling-place 
Of  Thy  redeeming  grace 

Be  void  forever! 

God  of  the  fair  and  free  ! 
We  bring  our  cause  to  Thee, 

A  suffering  nation ! 
Humbly,  on  bended  knee, 


The  Volunteer's  Return  239 

Oh,  hear !  Thou  wilt  and  must ; 
Thou  canst  not  scorn  our  trust, 
Nor  tread  into  the  dust 
Thine  own  creation ! 

Hear  us,  our  fathers'  God! 
Stay  Thy  chastising  rod, 
Our  feet  the  ways  have  trod, 

Of  desolation. 

Lay  by  Thy  righteous  wrath, 
Preserve  us  free  from  scath, 
Shine  o'er  our  onward  path, 

Be  our  salvation ! 

Arise !  Thy  people  free, 
Erst  as  on  Galilee 
Bid  these  dark  discords  flee, 

Thy  triumph  voicing. 
Let  all  the  earth  arise, 
With  loud,  exultant  cries 
Unite  to  rend  the  skies 

With  strong  rejoicing! 

1864. 


THE  VOLUNTEER'S  RETURN. 

Ah !  you're  come  back  too  late,  darling 

'Tis  but  to  see  me  die ; 
Trust  not  this  strange,  delusive  glow, 

This  brightness  in  my  eye; 
For  see  how  lightly  lies  my  hand, 

How  thin  within  your  clasp, — 
So  quick  and  strong  its  pulses  were 

When  last  it  felt  your  grasp ! 

This  poor,  unworthy  face,  darling, 
Ah !  hide  it  in  your  breast ; 


240  Idyls  of  Battle 

'Tis  long  since  last  my  weary  head 
To  its  true  home  was  pressed. 

I  only  want  to  lie  and  look 
Into  your  blessed  eyes; 

'Tis  weary  months  since  thus  they  shone 
So  free  from  all  disguise. 

And  when  I  saw  you  march  away, 

Without  one  parting  word, 
While  the  brave  hearts  of  your  regiment, 

By  martial  notes  were  stirred, 
I  felt  the  ice  within  my  heart, 

The  fire  within  my  brain; 
And  all  my  life  since  then  has  been 

One  long-enduring  pain ! 

Ah,  God !  if  I  could  live,  darling ! 

Live  but  for  your  dear  sake ; 
To  think  that  I  must  leave  you  now, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break! 
And  yet  'tis  not  such  weary  pain 

As  when  you  went  away; 
Oh,  I  suffered  and  I  missed  you  so, 

Through  every  dreary  day! 

And  then  'twas  dreadful,  when  the  night 

Brought  back  your  darling  face, 
And  gave  me  in  a  mocking  dream 

Its  dear,  remembered  grace, 
To  start  and  stretch  my  yearning  arms 

And  clasp  the  empty  air, — 
To  waken  in  the  cold  and  dark 

And  feel  you  were  not  there ! 

To  know  that  you  were  lost,  darling, 

To  me  forevermore, — 
To  know  my  soul's  young  life  had  shed 

The  freshness  that  it  wore 
When  we  walked  together  hand  in  hand, 


The  Volunteer's  Return  241 

And  I  looked  up  to  you, 
To  read  within  your  eyes  your  thought 
Of  all  that  I  might  do ! 

Too  late,  too  late  I  found,  darling, 

You  were  the  world  to  me ! 
My  highest  pride,  no  matter  what 

The  careless  eye  might  see. 
But  I  never  wronged  you,  even  in  thought,— 

My  pulse's  lightest  beat 
Was  yours,  even  as  the  faithful  heart 

You  trampled  'neath  your  feet. 

But  now  you  know  it  all,  darling, 

You  know  that  I  was  true, — 
They  could  not  stir  one  bitter  thought 

For  all  that  they  could  do ; 
Within  your  strong  and  tender  arms 

This  last  time  let  me  lie, 
And  tell  me  that  you  love  me,  dear, 

Once  more  before  I  die ! 

I  do  not  mind  it  now,  darling; 

Here,  take  my  hand  in  thine, — 
You  may  find  a  brighter  fairer  face, 

But  ne'er  a  heart  like  mine ! 
Oh,  hold  me  closer,  closer  yet, 

And  kiss  me  ere  we  part ! 
I'd  rather  die  and  keep  your  love, 

Than  live  and  lose  your  heart! 

1864. 


242  Idyls  of  Battle 


OUR  CAUSE. 

IN  1861. 

By  all  the  undying  memories  of  the  past, 
Which  shall  this  hour  of  treacherous  calm  outlast, 
We  know  we  stand 

Above  an  Etna  of  unquenched  fire, 
Which,  soon  or  late,  shall  burst  upon  the  land 

In  its  resistless  ire. 
These  gauds  which  deck  its  sod  in  gay  array, 

Must  soon  be  torn  away, — 
The  awful  secret  from  its  depth  come  forth, 
To  scare  the  wondering  earth ! 

•    .     > .  ( 

Because  an  evil  power, 

In  one  unguarded  hour, 

Guised  in  the  folds  of  Freedom's  virgin  vest, 
Crept  into  a  great  nation's  peaceful  breast. 

None  dreamed  of  inward  foe ; 

And,  working  sure,  but  slow, 
At  length  the  Curse,  with  high  uplifted  head, 
Defied,  and  sought  to  tread 

Into  the  dust  the  friend  whose  heart  its  life  had 
cherished ! 

The  soul  of  Treason  came, 

And  breathed  with  breath  of  flame 

On  the  cool  waters  of  a  nation's  rest ; 
And  Wrong  walked  through  the  land, 
With  overbearing  hand; 

And  from  the  East  to  the  resounding  West, 
Contention's  brands  flared  out, 
And  Indignation  raised  the  mutinous  shout ! 


Our  Cause  243 

A  band  of  frantic  fools, 

Gone  mad  upon  the  isms  of  the  day, 
Are   Treason's  chosen  tools, 

Drawn  up  against  us,  in  a  rash  array ! 
Our  equals,  and  our  brothers  yet, — but  late 
They  seek  to  rank  above  us  in  the  State, 
To  wrest  from  us  a  God-donated  right, 
By  force  of  fraud  or  might, 
Of  all  hope  for  the  present  now  bereft, 
What-  course  to  us  is  left  ? 

But  one.     And  yet, 

We  cannot  quite  forget 

They  are  co-claimants  in  each  blood-bought  right; 
That,  hand  to  hand  to  Freedom's  fearless  fight- 
Their  sires  with  ours  went  forth, —    , 
Though,  in  the  oneness  of  their  patriot  worth, 
They  knew  not  of  a  separate  South  or  North. 

And  could  they  live 

To  view  the  fortunes  of  this  desperate  day, 
We  know  that  they  would  give 

Their  blessing  to  our  Union's  Rights  array! 
The  cause  in  which  they  fought, 
In  that  our  deeds  are  wrought. 

Our  foes  must  understand, 

No  impious  human  hand 
May  dare  their  sacred  compact  set  at  nought! 

But  they  who  say 

That  hands  of  ours  have  lit  this  baleful  fire, — 
They  wrong  the  lion  at  bay, 

Mistake  the  impulse  of  our  righteous  ire ! 
No  !  l°yal  hearts  bleed  for  the  wanton  wreck 

That  envy's  hand  hath  made, — 
To  see  our  glorious  star-crown  pale  and  fade, 

And  Treason's  dastard  foot  on  Union's  neck; 
Even  tears  of  living  blood  could  not  atone 
The  grievous  wrong  unto  our  Present  done ! 


244  Idyls  of  Battle 

Be  it  upon  the  heads 

Of  those  who  sought  to  tread 
The  interests  of  their  brothers  in  the  dust ! 
They  were  recreant  to  each  sacred  trust. 
Our  temperate  pleas  were  thrust 
Back  with  insulting  defiance  to  our  hand; 

We  were  driven  to  the  wall, — 

We  must  either  fight  or  fall,— 
No  choice  was  left  us  but  this  desperate  stand. 

But,  brothers,  we  are  strong, 

Clad  in  the  God-born  might  which  doth  belong 

To  every  soul  that  hath  its  quarrel  just, 

Not  on  the  treacherous  sand  we  plant  our  trust, 

But  on  an  enduring  rock, 

Which  feeleth  not  the  shock 
Of  each  presumptuous  and  assaulting  Wrrng. 

God  fighteth  for  the  Right ! 

He  will  our  prayers  requite, 

And  lead  us  from  this  darkness  to  th,.  light ! 

Oh,  we  could  pray  that  Peace, 

With  its  soft,  silken  ease, 
Might  settle  down  upon  our  troubled  land, 
And  stay  the  impious  hand 
That  would  dissolve  the  band 
That  holds  the  jewels  of  our  country's  crown ! 

But  be  it  life  or  death, 

Soft  words  or  defiant  breath. 
The  motto  of  our  banner  gleam?th  bright, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  night, — 
God  and  our  life-blood  for  the  assaulted  Right ! 

IN  1864. 

Oh,  triumph-bells,  ring  out, 
And  voice  the  exultant  shout, — 
The  anthemed  chorus  of  a  Nation's  soul! 
The  tides  of  battle  roll 
Our  Venture  to  its  goal! 


My  Absent  Soldier  245 

And.  on  the  forehead  of  this  war-worn  age, 

The  Angel  of  all  time 

Shall  grave  a  deathl°ss  rhyme ; 
We  pause  to  turn  the  last  unwritten  page, 
Whose  story  shall  each  unborn  race  engage. 


MY  ABSENT  SOLDIER. 

Evening  shades  are  falling,  dearest, 

Night  is  drawing  on, 
And  the  sweet  stars  look  out  shyly, 

Slowly,  one  by  one; 
And  I  count  them,  with  my  forehead 

Pressed  against  the  pane ; 
We  did  it  once  together,  dearest. 

Now  I  do  so  once  again. 

When  I  fold  my  hands,  dearest, 

To  breathe  a  "good-night"  prayer, 
Whose  name  is  it  lingers  longest 

On  the  evening  air? 
Yours.    And  then  I  slumber  softly; 

For  I  know  our  Lord 
Through  the  night's  long  hours  of  darkness 

Hath  you  in  His  ward ! 

How  much  I  think  of  you,  dearest! 

I  know  that  very  oft 
My  features  rise  before  you, 

And  then  your  voice  grows  soft ; 
They  do  not  know  the  reason 

It  thrills  and  trembles  so ; 
'Tis  the  beautiful  heart-music 

That  makes  it  sweet  and  low ! 


246  Idyls  of  Battle 

God  bless  you!  my  own  darling, 

And  keep  you  pure  and  fair; 
May  the  calm  glory  of  your  eyes 

Be  darkened  by  no  care ; 
Your  love,  the  dearest  next  to  God's, — 

Your  worth,  my  highest  pride : 
Sweet  angels  guard  your  homeward  path, 

And  haste  you  to  my  side! 

But  if—  ah,  God !  the  bitter  thought ! 

You  should  not  come  again, — 
If  you  should  lie  out,  cold  and  still, 

Among  the  battle's  slain, — 
I  could  not  bear  such  anguish,  love, 

For  all  that  I  could  do ; 
I  know  my  widowed  heart  would  break, 

And  I  should  perish  too ! 

1861. 


L.  H.  B. 

Oh,  soldier-heart !     Oh,  knightly  soul ! 

Thine  is  the  noblest  skill  of  all, — 
That  keepeth  strength,  and  blood,  and  brain, 

Responsive  at  thy  country's  call! 

No  thought  of  risk,  no  mean  distrust, 
Doth  mar  the  splendor  of  thy  life ! 

Unbound  by  any  party  creed, 

Full-powered,  thou  goest  to  the  strife. 

Why,  let  them  strain,  the  paltering  crew ! 

Who  toil  for  gain,  and  not  for  Right ; 
True  heartl  true  hand!  thy  deeds  proclaim 

The  man  who  makes  the  noblest  fight ! 

1863. 


My  Story  247 


MY  STORY. 

FEBRUARY  14,  1864. 

Brave,  generous  soul!  I  grasp  the  hand 
Which  instinct  teaches  me  is  true ; 

This  were  indeed  a  royal  world, 
If  all  were  like  to  you ! 

You  know  my  story.     In  my  youth 
The  hand  of  God  fell  heavily 

Upon  me, — and  I  knew  my  life 
From  thence  must  silent  be. 

I  think  my  will  was  broken  then, — 
The  proud,  high  spirit,  tamed  by  pain; 

And  so  the  griefs  of  later  days 
Cannot  distract  my  brain. 

But  my  poor  life,  so  silence-bound, 

Reached  blindly  out  its  helpless  hands, 

Craving  the  love  and  tenderness 
Which  every  soul  demands. 

I  learned  to  read  in  every  face 
The  deep  emotions  of  the  heart; 

For  Nature  to  the  stricken  one 
Had  given  this  simple  art. 

The  world  of  sound  was  not  for  me ; 

But  then  I  sought  in  friendly  eyes 
A  soothing  for  my  bitter  loss, 

When  memories  would  rise. 


248  Idyls  of  Battle 

And  I  was  happy  as  a  child, 

If  I  could  read  a  friendly  thought 

In  the  warm  sunshine  of  a  face. 
The  which  my  trust  had  wrought. 

But  then,  at  last,  they  bade  me  hope, 
They  told  me  all  might  yet  be  well; 

Oh !  the  wild  war  of  joy  and  fear, 
I  have  not  strength  to  tell! 


Oh,  heavier  fell  the  shadow  then! 

And  thick  the  darkness  on  my  brain, 
When  hope  forever  fled  my  heart, 

And  left  me  only  pain. 

But  when  we  hope  not  we  are  calm, 
And  I  shall  learn  to  bear  my  cross, 

And  God,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
Will  recompense  this  loss. 

And  every  throb  of  spirit-pain 
Shall  help  to  sanctify  my  soul, — 

Shall  set  a  brightness  on  my  brow, 
And  harmonize  my  whole ! 

By  suffering  weakened,  still  I  stand 
In  patient  waiting  for  the  peace 

Which  cometh  on  the  Future's  wing, — 
I  wait  for  God's  release ! 

A  nation's  tears  !     A  nation's  pains  ! 

The  record  of  a  nation's -loss ! 
My  God !  forgive  me  if  I  groan 

Beneath  my  lighter  cross ! 

Henceforth,  thou  dear,  bereaved  land ! 

I  keep  with  thee  thy  vigil-night ; 
My  prayers,  my  tears,  are  all  for  thee,— 

God  and  the  deathless  Right ! 


Waiting  for  Victory  249 


WAITING  FOR  VICTORY. 

Nations  may  side  with  wrong; 

Right  shall  endure: 
Justice  may  suffer  long ; 

Right  shall  endure : 
Stubborn,  and  hot,  and  strong, 
Traitors  about  us  throng; 
This  our  unaltered  song: 

Right  shall  endure ! 

What  though  they  battle  well? 

Right  shall  endure  1 
This  be  their  final  knell : 

Right  shall  endure ! 
Eager  their  lives  to  sell, 
Heroes  who  grandly  fell 
Lingered  this  truth  to  tell: 

Right  shall  endure ! 

What  though  the  fight  be  hard? 

Right  shall  endure ! 
Be  the  day  evil-starred, — 

Right  shall  endure ! 
Triumph,  at  first  debarred, — 
Victories  in  dawning  marred, — 
Fall  back  upon  your  guard ! 

Right  shall  endure ! 

Stars  that  are  fixed  may  fall; 

Right  shall  endure ! 
Darkness  may  cover  all; 

Right  shall  endure ! 
Ruin  may  droop  its  pall, 


250  Idyls  of  Battle 

This  our  unshaken  wall; 
We,  from  behind  it  call: 

Right  shall  endure ! 

Let  the  world  say  its  nay! 

Right  shall  endure ! 
Let  the  false  have  its  day ! 

Right  shall  endure! 
Failure  may  block  the  way, — • 
Error  may  bring  dismay, — 
Fixed,  through  this  long  delay, 

Right  shall  endure ! 

1864. 


CHARGE  OF  BLAIR'S  BRIGADE  AT 
VICKSBURG. 

Ye  glorious  few,  who  blenched  not,  looking  Death 
Full  in  the  face,  with  eyes  of  proud  disdain, — 

Who  won  a  benediction  from  the  land, 

Through  such  an  offering  of  martyr  pain ! 

Be  proud,  ye  brave !     God  writes  a  victory  down, 
And  no  defeat! — say  traitors  what  they  will, 

To  you  the  world  awards  the  hero's  crown, 
To  them  a  scorning  sharp  enough  to  kill ! 

Oh,  souls  sublime  from  wrestling  with  the  wrong ! 

I,  a  weak  woman,  scarcely  dare  to  raise 
My  voice,  through  tears,  to  swell  this  burst  of  praise, 

But  that  enthusiasm  makes  me  strong ! 


Lost  m  the  Wilderness  251 


LOST  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

[The  Battles   of  the  Wilderness.] 

My  love !  my  only  love ! 

Where  lies  thy  head  tonight? 
Oh,  'tis  weary  waiting  for  break  of  day, 

And  for  tidings  of  the  fight! 

'..  i» ;  *.-   -••-• .  ••         *    »    i  . 
Somewhere  in  a  crowded  camp, 

Or,  mayhap,  on  a  ghastly  field, 
Is  lying  one  whom  my  jealous  heart, 

To  death  will  never  yield. 

M  y  love  !  my  only  love  ! 

But  the  rivers  roll  between, 
And  the  land,  it  stretcheth  for  weary  miles, 

In  summer  beauty  green ! 

My  love  !  my  only  love  ! 

But  the  night  is  long  and  lone, 
And  my  heart  goes  out,  through  the  dreary  dark, 

With  a  sore,  unsoothed  moan! 

My  love !  my  only  love ! 

But  my  arms  are  vacant  yet, 
And  the  cheeks  that  are  fading,  because  unkissed, 

With  passionate  tears  are  wet ! 

My  love !  my  only  love ! 

My  life  is  a  wearing  pain, 
And  its  fulness  of  unshed  tenderness 

Maketh  it  ache  again! 


252  Idyls  of  Battle 

My  love  !  my  only  love  ! 

I  will  arise  and  go ; 
To  find  thee  is  all  that  is  left  to  me, 

If  thy  glory  lieth  low. 

Alas !  and  she  could  not  know, 

That  the  grass  was  springing  green, 

And  the  rank  weeds  hiding  a  Something  where 
A  knightly  soul  had  been. 

Alas,  for  the  faithful  heart! 

Alas,  for  its  yearning  pain ! 
He  hath  laid  him  down  in  the  Wilderness, 

Never  to  rise  again ! 


BUTLER'S  BLACK  BRIGADE. 

So  they  will  not  fight !  those  branded  men, 

Whose  crime  is  a  dusky  skin; 
They  are  dark  without,  so  'tis  fair  to  think 

The  blood  must  be  pale  within! 
They  will  not  fight?     You  have  crushed  them  long, 

They've  forgotten  the  way  to  turn! 
They  have  brains,  and  yet  they  remember  not; 

And  hearts,  but  they  never  burn ! 

So,  they  will  not  fight?     You  remember  how 

They  cowered  in  last  July?* 
They  had  done  no  wrong,  but  their  skins  were  black, 

'Twas  fitting  that  they  should  die ! 
They  did  not  fight,  but  they  stand  today, 

As  stanchly  as  fairer  men ; 
They  are  helping  you  on  to  your  triumph  now, 

Who  were  hunted  and  tortured  then! 

*The  New  York  riots  July,  1863. 


Butler's  Black  Brigade  253 

Oh,  ye  will  not  take  in  a  kindly  clasp, 

The  hand  that  is  darker  than  yours ! 
And  ye  will  not  walk  in  a  plainer  light, 

Nor  bury  these  ancient  scores ! 
Oh,  shame  for  your  senseless  and  narrow  creed! 

And  shame  for  your  savage  hate ! 
And  shame  for  the  dulness  that  does  not  know, 

Like  ever  will  seek  its  mate ! 

"Free,"  not  "equal,"  for  Mind  must  rule, 

And  Mind  must  decide  the  caste ; 
And  the  largest  brain,  though  the  lowest  down, 

Must  go  highest  up,  at  the  last. 
What  is  it  ye  fear,  if  Mind' must  rule, 

And  the  earth  is  so  very  wide? 
Oh,  shame  for  your  shortness  of  mental  sight ! 

And  shame  for  your  shallow  pride ! 

So  they  will  not  fight?     But  the  grim  old  man* 

Will  tell  you  another  tale, — 
For  Pillow's  their  St.  Bartholomew ! 

Sepoys  of  the  South,  grow  pale ! 
Perhaps,  when  they  hallow  this  common  cause 

With  their  thousands  of  nameless  graves, 
Your  selfish  hearts  will  proclaim  at  last, 

They  are  men,  and  they  are  not  slaves! 

1864. 

*Butler. 


254  Idyls  of  Battle 


TO  A.  E. 

[In  prison  at  Richmond.] 

There  is  a  spirit  in  that  small,  slight  frame, 
Which  long  captivity  could  never  cow; 
And  the  eye,  pent  beneath  that  hanging  brow, 
Would  never  blench  before  the  bared  steel, 
Prisoner  of  Richmond !    As  thou  standest  now 
I  see  the  prison-blight  upon  thy  face ! 
How  didst  thou  suffer,  in  those  long,  dull  days, 
And  harder  yet,  those  terrible  still  nights ! 
No  word  from  home !     No  wifely  fond  embrace  !* 
Long  years  of  peace  can  never  do  away 
The  memory  of  those  pangs  that  turned  the  spirit 
gray! 

*In    one    of   the    entries    in   this   journal    he    says,    "If   I    could 
only  hear  from  my  wife!" 


KENTUCKY'S  CRITTENDEN 

IN  1861. 

He  has  given  all ! 

His  heart,  his  soul,  his  strength,  his  manhood's  prime ; 

Be  very,  very  gentle  with  him,  Time, 

And  let  our  prayers  thy  stern  demands  forestall, 

He  has  given  all ! 

Oh,  ripening  head,  God's  harvest  is  anear; 
Oh,  gentle  eyes !  so  ready  with  a  tear, 
A  suffering's  plaintive  call. 


Kentucky's  Crittenden  255 

He  has  given  all! 

Not  vainly, — like  some  blessed  household  word, 
Whose  dropping  quivereth  on  some  tender  chord, 
His  name  shall  ever  fall! 

IN  1863. 

He  is  at  rest! 

'Twas  like  a  lying  down  to  peaceful  dreams, 
Lulled  by  the  murmuring  of  summer  streams, 
To  be  awakened  by  the  morrow's  dreams. 

He  is  at  rest! 

All  noisy  sorrow  were  unfitting  now ; 
We  drop  no  tears  above  this  marble  brow, 
And  to  this  late  bereavement  humbly  bow. 

He  is  at  rest ! 

With  reverent  hands  we  bear  him  o'er  the  sod, 
Where  lately  oft  his  trembling  footsteps  trod, 
And  leave  him  in  this  quiet  with  his  God. 


THE  QUIET  MAN. 

(GRANT.) 

There  was  no  feasting  when  he  marched  away, 

No  patriotic  speeches; 
His  calm  belief  in  Right  had  placed  him  where 

No  egotism  reaches. 

He  was  above  them  all, — that  motley  crowd, 

Enthusiasts  and  pretenders, 
Who  make  long  speeches,  and  who  love  to  call 

Themselves  the  land's  defenders ! 


256  Idyls  of  Battle 

Then  he  went  gravely,  earnestly  to  work, 

And  lo,  a  great  sensation ! 
For  soon  they  found  he  was  the  only  man, 

With  skill  to  serve  the  nation. 

And  so  they  said,  "Among  the  men  who  aspire 

To  office  let  us  rank  you" ; 
But  he  was  neither  fool  nor  knave,  and  said, 

Decidedly,  "No,  thank  you." 

At  last  they  gave  up  trying  to  make  him  talk, 

And  cheered  for  him  immensely; 
But  he  held  quiet,  and  was  not  satisfied, 

Unless  he  worked  intensely. 

"One   still,   strong  man !"     We've   waited  long   for 
him ; 

He  lives  by.  acts,  not  speeches. 
Legions  of  talkers !    do  you  heed  the  truth 

His  life-endeavor  teaches? 


H.  T.  B. 

Be  strong  of  heart,  my  genial,  generous  friend! 
And  falter  not  before  this  league  of  crime: 
I  hear  the  angel  of  the  Coming  Time 
Cry  to  the  nations,  "This  is  not  the  end!" 

I  trace  the  patriot's  self-forgetting  thought 
Upon  a  forehead  where  unselfish  care 
And  noble  toiling  leave  the  marks  of  wear ; 
And  generous  feeling — pained  or  overwrought. 

But  yet  be  strong !   It  shall  not  be  in  vain — 
This  wrestling  through  the  darkest  hour  of  fate, 


The  Last  Poem  257 

For  we  shall  go  through  Triumph's  lifted  gate 
To  find  our  solace  for  this  night  of  pain ! 

1864. 


THE  LAST  POEM. 

0  brave  and  gentle-hero  soul! 

0  spirit  tender,  tried,  and  true ! 
How  could  I  close  my  record  here, 
Without  one  little  word  for  you? 

Whose  stronger  arm  has  held  me  up, 

Whose  stronger  heart  has  strengthened  mine, 

Whose  eye  was  always  first  to  see 
The  meaning  of  God's  deep  design! 

Whose  deeds  were  noble,  first  and  last, 

As  tale  of  ancient  chivalry; 
Whose  sweet,  exceeding  faithfulness, 

Made  life  so  beautiful  for  me ! 

Whose  teachings  filled  my  spirit  with 

This  strong,  unfaltering  belief, 
That  God's  good  hand  will  save  the  right. 

Through  failure  and  bewildering  grief. 

Ah !   no  caressing  hand  is  laid 

In  commendation  on  my  head, 
My  soul,  dividing  time  and  space, 

Is  leaning  toward  yours  instead ! 

1  cannot  think  it  vainly  yearns 

To  reach  you,  though  bereaved  I  stand  ; 
Though  it  is  bitter  pain  to  miss 
The  touch  of  your  protecting  hand. 


258  :  Idyls  of  Battle 

Nx)>t,  lost,  but  absent !     Will  you  take 
These  first-fruits  of  a  younger  soul? 

You  know  how  long  ago  God  gave 
Its  throbbings  into  your  control. 


PART  III. 
LATER  POEMS 


Photograph  of  Author,  taken  in  1893 


LATER  POEMS. 


[As  collected  by  the  Poet's  daughter,  Elsa  Searing  McGinn, 
and  which  were  not  thought  by  the  author  to  be  of  sufficient 
merit  to  publish,  but  her  many  friends  and  admirers  have 
requested  that  they  be  included  in  this  volume.] 

Never  nurse  your  troubles; 

Fast  enough  they  grow; 
Don't  need  any  cuddling 

To  start  a  first-class  woe. 

Never  nurse  your  troubles; 

Turn  them  from  the  door; 
Often  they  would  die  outright 

If  a 'smile  you  wore. 

Never  nurse  your  troubles; 

Turn  a  laughing  face ; 
Oft  a  Don't  Care  drives  them 

Quickly  from  the  place. 

Fortune  always  singles 

Out  the  grittiest  one; 
Make  your  daily  muddles 

Food  for  sport  and  fun. 


262  Later   Poems 


DIPPITY. 

Now  comes  Missy  Minnikin, 
Puts  her  nose  against  my  chin, 

Creeps  up  higher  and  peeps  in, 
From  my  eyes  a  wink  to  win. 

Puts  her  paws  into  my  hair, 

With  a  funny  little  air; 
For  she  knows  I  do  not  care, 

Knows  I  think  her  doings  fair. 

0  you  little  fuzzy  foozy, 

Full  of  entoozy  moozy, 
That  it  sometimes  makes  her  boozy, 

When  she  plays  too  long  with  Susie. 

Come,  you  cunning  little  cat; 

You're  too  fussy  to  be  fat, 
Springing  out  at  this  or  that, 

Just  the  color  of  a  rat. 

But  as  sleek  as  velvet  grey 

Is  your  shining  fur  today, 
And  you  have  a  worry  way 

Even  in  your  antics  gay. 

Often,  too,  your  mistress  thinks 

When  you're  playing  such  high  jink 

Of  a  lissome  little  lynx 

Crouching  on  the  hidden  brinks 

Of  some  forest's  silent  streams, 
Going,  gliding,  as  in  dreams, 


Dippity 

f 

Where  no  sunbeam  ever  gleams, 

And  the  white  owl  sits  and  screams. 

Dippity  her  name  is ;  Baby 

Can't  say  Kitty — will  not  maybe — 

Just  as  knowingly  as  can  be 
She  calls  Kitty  Dippity! 

Four  Maples,   November   3,   1877. 


I  am  marked  with  thy  sign, 
I  am  sealed  with  thy  seal; 

I  am  thrall  unto  thee. 

Thy  glamor  has  won  me ; 
Thy  spell  is  upon  me — 

I  am  never  more  free ! 


There  was  an  old  woman  in  Washington 
Who  never  could  let  well  enough  alone. 

She  went  out  in  the  rain, 

And  came  home  in  pain, 
And  she  said,  "I  will  never  do  so  again." 

And  she  sneezed  and  she  said, 

"I've  a  cold  in  me  'ead. 

Oh,  I  wish  I  were  dead ! 

I've  a  cold  in  me  'ead." 

And  she  soaked  her  toes, 

And  she  greased  her  nose ;    .  . 

And  she  tied  up  her  head, 

And  hopped  into  bed, 

And  continued  to  groan, 

If  I'd  let  well  enough  alone !" 
This  windy  old  woman  of  Washington. 


264  Later  Poems 


UNTIL  THE  END  OF  IT. 

Lord !  not  to  lift  the  pain, 
Not  to  be  glad  again, 
Not  to  rise  up  when  slain — 
Only,  not  to  complain 
Of  what's  past  healing ! 

Only,  that  I  may  bear 
Bravely,  and  without  despair, 
The  darkening  of  the  air, 
The  probe,  the  laying  bare 
All  nerves  of  feeling! 

Only,  that  I  may  sit 
In  silence  as  is  fit, 
Through  the  chill  night,  unlit, 
Until  the  end  of  it — 
Of  thy  sore  feeling! 


ONE  PERFECT  DAY. 

[Inscribed  to  Dr.   S.   S.    Nivison.] 

'Twas  in  the  glory  of  the  year, 
I,  suffering  sorely,  came  to  you, 

As  sad  as  though  the  fields  were  sere, 
And  not  one  iris  blue. 

You  grasped  me  firm  and  drew  me  near, 

True  minister  to  the  bruised  hearts 
And  spirits  sick  in  fear. 


One  Perfect  Day  265 

And  when  you  led  me  forth  and  left 
My  head  safe  on  Nature's  breast, 

How  soon  her  mother's  touches  deft 
Soft  soothed  me  into  rest. 

For  days  it  seemed  as  if  my  heart  was  dead 

To  all  the  freshness  of  the  time. 
I  had  not  heart  to  lift  my  head 

And  look  on  June's  sweet  prime. 

And  when  this  perfect  morning  flushed 
With  freshest  rose,  the  Eastern  sKies, 

I  felt  a  new  life  o'er  me  rush 

And  looked  with  new  found  eyes. 

Upon  the  glory  of  the  earth, 

Upon  the  radiance  of  heaven, 
Feeling  what  such  a  day  was  worth 

Unto  the  soul,  new  shriven. 

Seated  beneath  your  purple  shade, 
How  swiftly,  sweetly  flow  the  hours ; 

The  winds  were  soft  as  spirits  laid, 
The  meadow  bright  with  flowers. 

And  so  for  you  shall  be  the  first 

Glad  song  that  leaves  my  unsealed  lips ; 

Your  sunlight  breakes  the  night  that  long 
Has  held  me  in  eclipse. 


266  Later   Poems 


SONNET. 

ELJSHA  KANE  KENT. 

God !    What  a  soul  it  was  that  lit  the  eye, 

And  fired  the  blood  of  that  thrice  noble  man, 
Whose  changeless  motto  was  to  "do  or  die" ; 

Whose  dauntless,  daring  spirit  e'er  outran 
The  poor,  weak  body,  suffering  'neath  the  ban 

Of  the  disease  that  sapped  his  strong  young  life 
In  its  first  glow.     Methinks  I  see  the  wan, 

Half-spiritual   face   and   frail   limbs,   nerved   for 

strife 

With   the   fierce   elements.     0 !   thou  whose   daring 
foot 

Pressed  furtherest  in  the  Arctic  solitude — 
Whose   brave    hand   plucked    the    secret   from    the 
mute, 

Cold  heart  of  Nature — the 'infinitude 
Of  reverent  admiration  fills — o'erflows  my  soul 

With  an  enthusiastic  joy  beyond  control ! 


ONE  MORE  ANGEL. 

[Written  after   the   burial   of   the   infant   son   of   Mr.    and   Mrs. 
Ezra   Canfleld.] 

Oh,  where  is  our  dear,  little  baby! 
Our  dear  little  dimple-cheeked  baby! 
Our  sweet  little  dark-eyed  darling ! 
With  a  voice  like  a  white  dove's  coo ! 
And  a  mouth  like  a  rose  in  the  dew! 


To  Harry  James  Dwight,  Sleeping          267 

Ah !  our  eyes  look  in  vain  for  our  baby ! 
And  our  lips  ask  in  vain  for  our  baby ! 

And  our  hearts  cry  in  vain  for  our  darling ! 
Our  hearts  must  just  ache  and  ache  on, 
For  our  own  little  treasure — is  gone ! 

Ah  !   Saviour  !   'tis  well  with  the  baby ! 
And  we  know  it  was  kind  to  the  baby ! 
•Love  us,  for  the  sake  of  our  darling, 
Stretch  an  arm  for  our  souls  to  lean  on, 
Since  bur  baby,  our  baby,  is  gone ! 


TO  HARRY  JAMES  DWIGHT,  SLEEPING. 

[Aged   18   months.] 

Harry !     So  God  is  good  to  you ! 

More  like,  so  God  is  good  to  us. 
For,  thinking  what  a  joy  you  were, 

My  words  are  better  mended  thus. 
A  day  will  come  when  you  will  read 

The  chanters  that  here  I  trace, 
As  bending  o'er  your  cradle  bed, 

I  gaze  upon  your  sleeping  face. 

My  darling  little  friend !    For  such 

You  have  been  ever  from  the  hour 
You  laid  your  little  hand  in  mine, 

As  white  and  perfect  as  a  flowei, 
And  gave  me  kisses  from  a  mouth 

Where  heaven's  sweetness  lingers  yet, 
And  smiled  upon  me  with  the  eyes 

In  which  unspoken  thoughts  are-  set. 

My  thoughts  go  onward,  and  I  see 
A  sturdy,  brave,  bright-thoughted  boy, 


268  Later   Poems 

Still  venturous  and  shy  by  turns, 
And  thorough  in  his  grief  and  joy; 

And  I  should  know  him  anywhere, 

Though  years  should  drift  us  far  apart, 

And  I  shall  always  keep  for  him 
A  loving  and  a  loyal  heart ! 

I  say,  ''God  bless  you!"  as  I  lay 

This  stealthy  kiss  upon  your  brow. 
Dear  child!     Perhaps  no  more  I'll  see 

You  sleeping  as  I  see  you  now! 
But  common  folks  will  hardly  guess 

How  much  my  simple  words  intend, 
When  I  shall  think  of  you  and  say: 

"I've  had  a  baby  for  my  friend!" 

"The  Old  Place,"    Stockbridge,   Mass.,   August,   1870. 


FOUND  WANTING. 

When  I  have  met  one  maimed  or  blind, 
Or  cowering  under  tattered  clothes, 

All  pitying  thoughts  have  ruled  my  brain, 
And  I  have  leashed  the  pride  that  loathes. 

So  far,  so  well,  but  only  half 
God's  law  is  written  in  my  plan, 

And  mine  is  but  a  crooked  staff 
Unworthy  any  upright  man. 

The  meagre  heart,  the  scanty  soul, 

These  move  me  not  to  generous  tears; 

My  scorn  goes  out  beyond  control 

To  those  who  quake  with  selfish  fears. 

I  teach  my  foot  to  spare  the  worm, 
But  will  not  help  him  from  the  dust; 


Found  Wanting  269 

And  if  he  live  not  out  his  term, 

My  thought  says  bitterly,  "  'Tis  just !" 

Alas !  these  poorest  of  God's  poor 

Find  no  sweet  mercy  in  my  heart ; 
For  them  its  guarded  inner  door 

In  welcome  never  swings  apart. 

The  squalid  brain,  abject  in  thought, 

The  earthy  sprit,  bare  of  gifts — 
If  I  could  go  to  these  unsought, 

And  show  the  Friendship  that  uplifts. 

Feel  pitying  tenderness  for  them, 
Shame  one  of  them  from  sorid  deed, 

Some  flower  might  ripen  on  my  stem, 
And  sow  good  ground  with  saving  seed ! 

The  vilest  deeds,  like  poison  weeds, 

Bloom  well  in  prison  air; 
It  is  only  what  is  good  in  man 

That  wastes  and  withers  there; 
Pale  Anguish  keeps  the  heavy  gate, 

And  the  Warden  is  Despair. 

Although  the  ear  its  office  fail, 

Yet  may  the  mind  be  strong  and  bright ; 

Though  utter  silence  may  prevail, 

What  stars  make  beautiful  the  night! 

Eternal  love  and  happiness, 

That  last  sublimest  recompense, 
Waits  all  the  silent  ones  to  bless 

Above  the  chain  of  sense ! 


270  Later   Poems 


THE  IRREVOCABLE  TRINITY. 

0  Love  and  Life,  ye  are  too  strong  for  me ! 
Life  is  such  anguish,  Love  is  such  deep  pain 

1  feel  like  telling  Life  to  go  forever, 

And  saying  unto  Love,  ''Come  not  again !" 

And  yet,  I  could  not  live  without  you,  Love ! 

And  yet  I  could  not  love  without  you,  Life! 
Ye  two  and  I  are  three  in  one  forever, 

Although  my  protest  frets  ye,  like  a  knife ! 


GIVE. 

Give !    the  earth  says  to  the  sky, 
And  down  drops  the  gentle  rain. 

And  what  is  the  earth's  reply? 

But  to  pass  the  gift  again 

To  the  rose  that  secretly 

In  her  mother-breast  hath  lain, 

Till  the  soft  shower  whisperingly 
Wakes  it  with  a  sweet  refrain. 

But  not  underneath  the  sky 
Doth  the  sweet  rose  useless  lie 

It  was  made  to  glad  the  eye 
Of  the  saddest  passerby. 

Give !     He  seeing  it  will  cry ! 

Underneath  the  bending  sky 
Be  thou  the  uplooking  earth 

In  thy  heart  all  secretly 

Let  the  rose-root,  Goodness,  lie. 

Watch  and  ward  keep  patiently ; 
God  will  send  to  call  for  it  the 

Showers  of  kindness  without  dearth. 


Forestalling  the  Ides  271 

God  who  dealeth  tenderly! 

Prove  it,  then,  a  rose  of  worth ! 
When,  all  parched  with  misery, 

Some  poor  soul  will  cry  to  thee, 
"Give!"     Then  be  thou  like  the  sky, 
Boundless  in  thy  sweet  reply; 
Pass  the  gift,  then,  like  the  earth 

Help  some  good  to  struggle  forth ! 


FORESTALLING  THE  IDES. 

I  saw  a  great  tree  on  a  mountain  side, 

Its  secret  roots,  by  some  mishap,  laid  bare, 
Flourish  fictitiously,  as  if  Despair 

Should  mimic  Hope  with  sheer  strength  of  Pride. 
Below,  men  wondered  one  calm  day  to  find 
That  it  had  fallen,  when  there  was  no  wind. 

I  had  a  vision  of  a  man  who  drew 

A  very  poisonous  shaft  from  his  own  breast 
With   a  firm  hand,   and  smiled,   and  said,   "  "Pis 

best!" 

Then  went  his  way  in  silence.     No  one  knew 
How  the  hurt  rankled.     "He  is  well,"  men  said; 
And  while  they  spoke,  he  quailed,  and  fell  back — 
dead! 

Ah,  when  the  tree  is  tall,  and  good  and  green, 
Our  gazing  gets  no  further  than  its  crown. 

We  reck  not  of  the  treacherous  ills  unseen, 
That  very  soon  shall  bear  its  beauty  down! 

When  a  great  gladiator  acts  his  part 
In  life's  arena,  smiling  at  his  task, 
The  applauding  world  may  well  forget  to  ask 

If  he  is  tired,  or  sick,  or  sore  at  heart. 

Sumner,  March  11,  1874. 


272  Later  Poems 


FIRST  AND  LAST. 

There  is  a  small  and  narrow  mound 

That  she  has  never  seen, 
A  life  went  from  her  life  to  it 

Last  June,  when  leaves  were  green. 

A  life  that  lay  so  near  her  heart 
Through  all  the  months  of  snow; 

The  roots  had  grown  around  it,  and 
She  scarce  could  let  it  go. 

What  can  the  father  know  about 
The  mother's  brooding  dream? 

Ere  in  its  own  he  sees  his  face, 
How  fast  his  fancies  turn. 

She  sees  the  babe,  the  boy,  the  man; 

Her  frail  life  zones  them  all; 
Like  Mary,  hears  she  the  Divine 

Unto  his  handmaid  call. 

She  saw  it  only  once,  though  months 
She  dreamed  about  its  face, 

The  while  she  spent  her  loving  on 
His  garments'  dainty  grace. 

And  all  she  had  was  one  short  glimpse 

Before  'twas  borne  away 
Of  that  small  shape  whose  sun  of  life 

Was  one  short  natal  day. 

Ah,  short  and  narrow  mound!   her  heart 
Goes  out  to  sit  by  you; 


Seniority  273 

The  breast  aches  where  his  head  should  lie, 
For  all  that  she  can  do. 

She  thinks  no  mother's  child  can  be 

Like  that  first  longed-for  one; 
She  keeps  thy  portion  safe  for  thee, 

Her  little  silent  son. 

Unto  the  bud  that  never  blows 

But  one  heart  gives  regret, 
For  she  who  hoped  its  bloom  to  tend 

Must  fret  about  it  yet. 

Dearer  to  her  than  rarest  flower 

That  bud  which  never  opes. 
Ah,  little  mound,  thou  art  large  enough 

To  hold  a  heart's  best  hopes. 


SENIORITY. 

Child !     Such  thou  seemest  to  me  that  am  more  old 

In  sorrow  than  in  years, 
With  that  long  pain  that  turns  us  bitter  cold 

Far  worse  than  these  hot  tears. 

Of  thine  that  fall  so  fast  upon  my  breast, 

I  know  they  ease  thy  grief. 
I  know  they  quiet  and  will  bring  thee  rest, 

Thou  poor,  wind-shaken  leaf. 

Ah,  yes !  thy  storm  will  pass,  thy  skies  will  clear ; 

Thou  smilest  beneath  my  kiss ; 
Lift  up  the  blue  eyes  cleansed  by  weeping  clear 

Of  every  thought  amiss. 


274  Later   Poems 

What  seest  thou,  child,  in  these,  dry  eyes  of  mine? 

Grief  that  hath  spent  its  tears- 
Grief  that  its  right  to  weeping  must  resign, 

Not  told  by  days  but  years. 

Are  these  the  eyes,  sayest  thou, 

That  are  never  seen  to  weep? 
The  veil  falls  from  them.     Knoweth  thou  not  ere  now 

The  stillest  stream  runs  deep? 

The  bitterest  is  that  weeping  of  the  heart 

That  mounts  not  to  the  eyes; 
In  its  lone  chamber  we  sit  down  apart, 

And  no  one  hears  our  cries. 

It  comes  to  4his  with  every  deep  true  soul, 

'Tis  neither  kill  nor  cure, 
But  a  strong  sorrow  held  in  strong  control 

A  girding  to  endure. 

For  no  such  soul  lives  in  this  troubled  world 

Bat,  like  Achilles'  heel, 
Hath  in  the  quick  a  shaft  too  truly  hurled, 

Flosh  growing  round  the  steel. 

For  at  the  last  the  heart  grows  round  its  pain, 

And  holds  it  with  its  life, 
So  used  we  are,  we  hope  not  for  relief, 

W<>  know  too  much  for  strife. 

And  this  is  why  I  kiss  thy  dear  wet  eyes, 

Nor  think  thy  grief  so  great. 
Child  that  thou  art,  at  any  fresh  surprise, 

Thy  heart  springs  to  the  gate. 


The  Cup  275 


THE   CUP. 

Away !  away !  with  the  charmed  cup ! 

There's  danger  in  its  gleam, 
And  the  circean  spell,  as  it  bubbles  up, 

Invokes  but  a  fevered  dream. 
Oh !    shun  the  board  where  the  wine  is  red, 

And  moveth  itself  aright, 
And  the  jest  of  the  maddened  reveler 

Profaneth  the  holy  night! 

Oh,  ye  who  have  taken  our  sacred  vows 

To  shun  the  unhallowed  lure, 
Hope's  morning  lustre  is  on  your  brows — 

Oh,  swear  that  it  shall  endure ! 
For  yours  is  the  magic  talisman 

That  guideth  the  soul  aright, 
And  the  faithful  since  ever  our  work  began 

Have  ever  prevailed  in  the  fight. 

'Tis  a  goodly  thing  to  look  upon — 

'Tis  a  goodly  thing  to  taste — 
But  they  on  whom  its  work  is  done 

Find  the  world  but  a  dreary  waste. 
Oh!  it  poisons  the  soul — that  red,  red  wine, 

And  it  poisons  the  springs  of  life, 
Till  the  father  forgetteth  his  trust  divine, 

And  the  husband  forgets  his  wife.  .  : 

Quail  not  for  the  tempter's  sneering  words, 

And  never  let  friends  prevail; 
Though  the  voice  and  the  smile  be  ever  so  dear, 

'Tis  better  that  they  fail. 
Refuse  it  from  beauty's  charming  hand, 


276  Later  Poems 

If  beauty  proffer  the  cup; 
Yea,  even  from  the  fairest  in  the  land, 
If  the  tempter  fills  it  up. 

We  are  pledged  to  resist  the  fatal  cup — 

We  are  pledged  to  reform  a  wrong ; 
We  are  pledged  to  lift  the  fallen  up, 

And  temperance  is  our  song ; 
Our  watchwords  purity  and  love, 

And  deathless  fidelity ! 
And  a  greeting  for  those  who  march  with  us, 

Wherever  their  homes  may  be ! 


THE  EMPEROR'S  RETURN  TO  MIRAMAR. 

[1851.] 

[Note. — I  am  perfectly  aware  that  my  views  of  Maximilian's 
fate,  as  here  set  forth,  are  not  generally  shared  in  the 
United  States.  I  am  to  some  extent  a  believer  in  the  theory 
that  the  form  of  government  should  be  adapted  to  the  exist 
ing  needs  and  capacities  of  the  people,  and  that  no  nation 
should  have  a  republic  which  is  not  ripe  for  it.  I  think  that 
such  a  ruler  as  Maximilian  would  have  been  the  proposition 
for  a  permanent  Mexican  Republic,  since  he  went  to  edu 
cate,  to  lift  up,  to  strengthen.  In  view  of  what  we  have  seen 
since,  I  think  we  may  say  that  Mexico  could  well  afford  to 

wait.  I  leave  American  interests  entirely  out  of  this. — Howard 
Glyndon.] 

Five  years  have   passed   since   last   they   stood   to 
gether, 

In  that  fair  Palace  rising  from  the  sea — 
(I  saw  it  once  in  lovely  April  weather, 

And  then  it  seemed  a  Paradise  to  me!) 
Five  years  ago,  one  bright  Italian  morning, 

Arm  linked  in  arm,  they  trod  those  garden  walks, 
Each  striving  to  repress  the  wistful  yearning 

Which  saddened  all  their  would-be  cheerful  talks. 

There,  for  a  space,  their  lives  seemed  enchanted, 
'Neath  those  rare  skies — in  the  delightful  air — 


The  Emperor's  Return  to  Miramar  277 

Love  and  each  other !     Nothing  more  they  wanted ! 

And  they  were  leaving  this  sojourn  so  dear — 
Going  afar,  to  try  a  fate  uncertain, 

Among  a  people,  strange  in  tongue  and  race. 
Ah !  hapless  pair !  could  ye  have  raised  the  curtain, 

And  looked  upon  the  ills  ye  went  to  face ! 

But  these  two  souls  were  fitted  for  communion ; 

But  these  two  minds  were  worthy,  each  of  each ; 
But  these  two  hearts,  in  well-assorted  union, 

Were  one  in  impulse,  one  in  act  and  speech ! 
So,  each,  while  striving  to  sustain  the  other, 

With  pale  lips  feigned  a  hopeful,  parting  smile, 
Both  striving  dim,  prophetic  fears  to  smother 

With  many  a  blithesome  word  and  cheerful  wile. 

So  went  they  from  the  Palace  Portal; 

So  glided  they  across  the  summer  sea. 
With  steadfast  hearts  and  constancy  immortal,, 

They  turned  to  struggle  with  the  Great  to  Be ! 
''Till  I  come  back,"  she  said,  and  flung  at  parting 

A  playful  kiss,  by  gentle  fingers  waved. 
"Till  I  come  back,"  he  said,  a  bright  tear  starting 

The  crowned  Saviour  of  a  race  enslaved! 

How  one  came  back,  has  been  too  well  related. 

A  broken  flower,  flung  from  a  storm-beat  shore; 
Weary,  forlorn,  bewildered  and  dismated, 

The  mazed  wanderer  sought  her  home  once  more. 
The  pain  was  long — the  conflict  too  unequal — 

Naught   could   avail  the   proud,   high   heart   and 

warm — 
We  know  too  well  the  sad  and  fatal  sequel — 

How  mind,  not  spirit,  sank  beneath  the  storm. 

Now  he,  too,   comes  back!     While   I  the   tale   am 

telling, 

There  is  loud  wailing  by  the  German  shore, 
And  guns  across  the  Adriatic  are  knelling, 


278  Later  Poems 

Saying  that  he  hath  returned  f orevermore ! 
Through  long  dull  days  of  wretched  leaden  weather 

A  pale  ship  crept  along  the  sullen  deep ; 
But  calm  or  storm  he  recked,  nor  knew  not 
whether — 

That  traveler  in  the  ship,  so  fast  asleep ! 

Slow  months  and  silent,  with  the  sky  above  him; 

And  with  the  turbid,  moaning  sea  beneath; 
Nor  any  rumor  of  the  earth  could  move  him — 

His   hands   were    crossed,   his   sword   was   in   its 

sheath. 
Oh,  Patient  Pilgrim,  o'er  the  solemn  ocean ! 

Oh,  conquered  hero,  wrapped  from  battle's  toils ! 
Thy  shut  eyes  waver  not,  for  the  commotion 

Thy  fall  hath  caused,  on  many  a  foreign  soil. 

The  ocean  rocks  thee ;  but  no  more  elation 

Shall  swell  the  heart  so  still  within  thy  breast, 
This  widowed  couch,  the  offering  of  a  Nation 

Whose  ills  thy  friendly  hand  had  fain  redressed ! 
Of  all  the  land  they  proffered  thee  was  given 

The  paltry  few  feet,  measured  by  thy  fall; 
And  leaden  balls,  to  pierce  thy  bosom,  seven — 

These   were   thy   grateful   gifts — and   these   were 
all! 

And  now  they  send  thee  back  to  that  fair  dwelling 

That  crowns  a  height  above  the  Adrian  sea; 
Now,  soft  Italian  gales,  its  white  sails  swelling, 

The  ship  casts  anchor,  where  they  wait  for  thee ! 
They  wait  for  thee — she  waits  for  thee,  thy  dearest ! 

Ah !  chill  the  heart,  where  oft  her  head  hath  lain ! 
And    cold    thy   brow !      No    welcoming    smile    thou 
wearest — 

'Tis  doubly  well  that  she  is  dead  to  pain ! 

Thou  hast  come  back!    Ah,  rash,  but  noble  spirit! 
Thine  ills  are  o'er — thy  cruel  griefs  are  o'er ! 


The  Emperor's  Return  to  Miramar         279 

But  they  who  loved  thee,  loss  and  tears  inherit ; 

For  here  thy  tread  shall  echo — nevermore! 
But  be  content!     Thou  hast  thy  meed  of  glory; 

No  breath  of  shame  upon  thy  'scutcheon  rests ; 
The  indignant  world  hath  blushed  to  hear  thy  story, 

And  history  shall  do  a  world's  behests ! 

Italy,   January  17,   1868. 


There's  a  sweet  spell 

In  its  fresh  winds  and  silvery-dropping  rains 
That  conjures  up  again  the  bounding  pulse ; 
And  the  outgushing  thoughts  which  fled  away, 
So  long,  so  long  ago ! 

Type  of  that  new  life  in  the  vast  Hereafter, 
Whose  walls  draw  nearer  with  each  setting  sun — 
Thou  art,  0  Spring? 

For  I  know 

When  I  shall  stand  within  its  golden  gates ; 

They'll  all  come  back — the  freshness  of  my  youth, 

The  unbroken  spirit,  the  untarnished  prime, 

The  mounting  aspirations,  which  were  mine 

Ere  sorrow  found  me ! 

To  fade  no  more — there  is  no  Autumn  there ! 
For  in  that  glorious  land  'tis  Spring  forever ! 


Oh,   my   baby !   my   baby !   there's   much   you   must 

teach  me ; 
There  are  problems  that  only  your  dimples  can 

solve ; 
And  'tis  only  through  you  that  the  best  good  can 

reach  me, 


280  Later  Poems 

And   'tis  around  you  that  my  best  thoughts  re 
volve. 

Ah,  dear  little  feet,  I  must  sit  down  below  you, 
And  try  to  forget  all  my  trouble  and  pain ; 

For  what  is  there  left  of  my  life  dear  to  show  you? 
Far  better  to  start  right  over  again. 


CHRISTMAS  GREETINGS. 

Dear  John,  look  up,  and  listen,  too ; 
There  are  bells  that  ring  for  none  but  you. 
I  feel,  I  sense  them  in  this  pure  air ; 
Look  up  and  list  to  their  music  rare. 
Dear  John,  look  up ! 

You  were  not  born  to  hang  your  head ; 
There  are  stars  above  you  to  be  read. 
Steadfastly  fix  your  gaze  on  them, 
And  tonight  remember  Bethlehem. 
Dear  John,  look  up ! 

And  life's  petty  cares  will  fade  away, 
And  Alaska's  snows  seem  mild  as  May; 
And  in  your  heart  shall  the  joy  bells  ring, 
And  your  soul  spring  up  on  a  tireless  wing. 
Dear  John,  look  up ! 

Christmas.    1906. 


The  years  are  gliding  by,  dear ; 

But  since  to  me  you  came, 
Each  one  has  been  so  full  of  you, 

Each  might  have  been  the  same. 


Christmas  Greetings  281 

It  seems  but  yesterday  I  saw 

You  running  to  my  arms, 
So  full  of  eagerness  and  love, 

And  all  of  childhood's  charms. 

And,  though  the  years  slip  on,  yet  still 

You  are  my  little  girl, 
With  loving  heart  and  flying  feet, 

And  life  in  every  curl. 

And  'twill  be  always  so,  dear, 

Like  your  coming  home  from  school ; 

My  heart  will  always  be  your  home, 
And  love  the  only  rule. 


Come    back,    dear   ones !      Come    back   to    mother's 

heart ! 
I  have  missed  you,   0,  so  long.     Dreary  the   days 

from  you  apart — 
While  olden  memories  throng  about  me, 

As  I  sit  alone,  and  your  faces  as  of  yore, 
And  I  so  proud,  my  babies  at  my  knee, 
And  home  is  home  once  more. 

Come  back,  come  back! 

Open  always  to  you,  my  arms; 

There  is  no  dearth  of  mother's  love ; 

My  heart  is  always  true. 

Come  back,  come  back ! 


282  Later   Poems 


THE  OPEN  DOOR. 

0  little  child  that  liest  asleep, 

A  flower  within  thy  hand  half  crushed ; 
To  thy  white  nest  I  gently  creep 
To  kiss  thy  cheek,  rose-flushed. 

Thou  art,  indeed,  the  very  core 
Of  my  heart's  life ;  I  cannot  bear 

Even  to  close  this  open  door, 
Since  thou  art  sleeping  there. 

And  now  I  never  dare  to  read 
Of  little  children  that  have  died, 

So  sharp  the  pang  that  warns  my  heart, 
My  eyes  must  turn  aside. 

And  so  I  leave  these  lines  undried, 
And,  stealing  through  the  open  door, 

1  bend  me  gently  at  thy  side, 
And  kiss  thee  o'er  and  o'er. 

And  even  in  sleep  thou  seekest  my  breast, 
And  healest  its  hurts  while  nestling  there 

Thy  baby  head  upon  my  heart 

Can  make  it  strong  and  brave  to  bear. 


GUESSING. 

My  darling  steals  to  my  side  as  I  write, 
And  I  pause  to  smile  on  her  winning  ways. 

"What  is  it?"  I  say,  "my  one  delight!" 
"Dear  delight  of  my  silent  days !" 


Guessing  283 

While  her  eyes  give  back  the  look  in  my  own, 

She  gently  puts  her  lips  to  my  ear, 
And  I  feel,  though  I  cannot  hear  the  tone, 

In  which  she  whispers,  "I  love  you,  dear !" 

She  learned  it  from  hearing  me  croon  it  to  her, 
Through  pain  and  pleasure,  in  year,  out  year; 

Her  cradle  swung  to  the  rhythmic  stir 

Of  her  mother  singing,  "I  love  you,  dear!" 

One  life  has  grown  up  betwixt  us  two ; 

One  thought  re-echoes  from  each  to  each ; 
I  read  my  heart  in  her  eyes  clear  blue, 

And  hers  lies  ever  within  my  reach! 

And  the  heart  of  a  mother  can  never  mistake, 
Though  the  ear  of  the  flesh  be  cold  and  dead, 

The  ear  of  the  soul  is  ever  awake ; 

"So  you  want  me  to  guess  what  'twas  you  said?" 

Thus,  when  she  had  spoken  she  looks  at  me. 

I  keep  down  the  sudden  tears  that  rise — 
"And  now  what  was  it  I  said?"  says  she, 

Suddenly  turning  solemn  and  wise. 

Then  I  bend  and  whisper,  "I  love  you,  dear !" 
While  my  eyes  smile  into  her  smiling  eyes ; 

Then  the  laugh  of  both  of  us  rings  out  clear, 
And  she  says  with  a  child's  unfeigned  surprise: 

"I'm  sure,  Mamma,  that  you  didn't  see. 

So,  how  can  you  know,  since  you  cannot  hear?" 
"Why,  I  love  my  sweet,  and  my  sweet  loves  me; 

And  I  think  it  is  very  clear !" 

Though  its  outer  courts  no  sound  may  shrill, 
The  listening  spirit  divines  Love's  song ; 

While  the  heart  waits  still  upon  his  sweet  will, 
If  it  guesses  it  never  goes  wrong. 


284  Later  Poems 


WAR  ECHOES. 
FIRST  THANKSGIVING  ANNIVERSARY 

AFTER   THE   WAR    OF   THE   REBELLION. 
[Celebrated   in   Paris,   1865.] 

Thanks  to  the  God  of  Nations ! 

The  trial  hour  is  past. 
Our  mourning  Mother-country 

Lifts  up  her  head  at  last, 
And  sees  her  scattered  children 

The  inmates  of  one  home, 
And  takes  them  to  her  bosom, 

Nor  chides  them  as  they  come. 

Four  tim^s  the  years  have  brought  us 

Then  pleasant  harvest  time, 
But  mute  the  reaper's  carol 

And  hushed  the  gleaner's  rhyme— 
Another,  costlier  harvest 

Was  reaped  on  many  a  field; 
The  thrusting  in  of  sickles 

Let  out  its  crimson  yield. 

"Thanksgiving  day  approaches" 

Four  times,  we  sadly  said. 
"Give  thanks!"     It  was  a  mockery. 

Our  hearts  were  with  the  dead. 
Our  hearts  were  with  our  country, 

She  said  in  woful  state, 
In  ashes  and  in  sackcloth, 

Forlorn  and  desolate. 


Grant's  the  Man.  285 

And  glancing  sadly  backward 

Unto  those  pleasant  days, 
When  peaceful  were  her  dwellings! 

And  pleasant  were  her  ways ! 
We  wept  like  homesick  children 

For  our  divided  land, 
Where  brother  turned  from  brother, 

Nor  stretched  the  greeting  hand. 

Dear  God!     Our  homes  were  darkened, 

Our  hearts  were  like  to  break, 
And  when  our  foes  exulted, 

What  answer  could  we  make? 
But  now  the  pall  is  lifted 

And  peace  returns  to  life 
And  hearts  so  long  embittered 

In  tears  forgo  the  strife ! 

We,  children  of  one  mother, 

Meet  in  a  foreign  land 
To  pour  the  wine  of  gladness 

And  clasp  the  friendly  hand. 
Thanks  to  the  God  of  Nations! 

The  trial  hour  is  past. 
Our  mourning  mother  country 

Lifts  up  her  head  at  last. 


GRANT'S  THE  MAN. 

Hurrah !  Hurrah !  for  the  man  whose  deed 

Is  mightier  than  his  voice! 
He's  our  truest  friend  in  our  need, 

And  he's  the  man  of  our  choice ! 
Let  those  who  sigh  for  inflation,  sneer, 

They  may  flout  his  fame  and  all  that ; 
But  they'll  find  in  spite  of  each  well  paid  jeer 


286  Later   Poems 

We've  taken  their  measure  and  all  that. 

And  all  that,  and  all  that, 
General  Grant's  the  man  for  all  that! 
You  can't  persuade  us  that  we  can  shirk 

And  that  'twill  be  all  the  same ; 
You  shall  not  gain  by  this  dirty  work 

And  shoulder  on  us  the  blame; 
"We  can't  afford  to  build  up  again 

The  Confederacy  and  all  that; 
So  don't  you  see,  it  is  very  plain, 

We  must  play  you  Grant  for  all  that? 

For  all  that,  and  all  that, 
General  Grant's  the  man  for  all  that ! 

Hurrah  !     Hurrah  !     and  a  treble  cheer ! 

And  give  him  three  times  three ! 
He  stepped  to  the  front  without  a  fear, 

And  treason  fell  on  its  knee. 
And  he's  saved  the  land  from  a  fouler  foe, 

Your  cursed  inflation  and  all  that. 
If  he  cannot  blarney,  he  can  say  No, 

And  put  a  stopper  on  all  that! 

And  all  that,  and  all  that, 
General  Grant's  the  man  for  all  that! 


[Apropos   of  a   gift   of  a   crystal   goblet   that   once   belonged   to 
Abraham  Lincoln.] 

Shall  I  ever  dare  to  touch 

With   my  lips   this   crystal   brim? 

If  I  ever,  let  me  never, 

Without  taking  thought  of  him 

Whose  pure  life  it  typifies 
Unto  reverential  eyes. 

We  who  proved  him,  and  then  loved  him, 
We  have  nothing  else  to  give, 


The  Reason  Why  287 

Long  as  we  shall  love  and  live, 
But  these  tears  of  homage — 
This  crown  whose  flowers  spring 
Out  of  blood  drops  that  were  wrung 
From  that  heart  that  never  any 
Lords  or  ladies  of  the  land 
Fathomed  or  could  understand     . 
Until  God's  revealing  hand 
Lifted  up  its  rugged  cov'ring, 
Showed  it  cold  and  still  and  dead — 
That  great  heart  that  nobly  bled — 
Died  for  us !    Kind  soul,  thy  lightness 
Was  half  lost,  but  all  thy  whiteness 
Clung  about  thee  to  the  last 
And  was  never  dropped  nor  passed. 
There  was  naught  to  make  thee  linger 
When  God's  lifted  dread  forefinger 
Stopped  the  wheels  and  signed  to  thee, 
"Come  up  here  and  rest  with  me !" 


THE  REASON  WHY. 

[During-  a  playful  discussion  recently  held  in  a  private  circle, 
on  the  cause  of  the  failure  of  Mr.  Buchanan's  Administra 
tion,  the  writer  was  challenged  to  a  poetical  presentation  of 
the  case,  and  what  follows  was  the  result.] 

All  are  lavish  of  their  censure, 

And  the   press   throughout   the   land 

Teems  with  with  bitter,  fierce  invective 
Of  his  feeble  head  and  hand ; 

But  though  all  are  quick  to  blame  him— 
Though  the  critic's  pen  and  eye 

Scans  each  failing,  they  have  never 
Paused  to  ask  the  reason  why — 


288  Later   Poems 

Why  the  promise  of  his  morning 

Sinks   into   such   clouded   night- 
Why  the  counsel  of  the  faithless 
Has  beguiled  him  from  the  right ! 

But  I,  glancing  o'er  the  record 
Of  his  toil-worn,  lonely  life, 

Pity,  more  than  I  can  biame  him — 
For  he  never  had  a  wife. 

Sneer,  ye  fools !  who  preach  that  woman 

To  a  lowlier  lot  is  born ; 
Ye,  who  hold  her  sex  but  servile, 

Laugh  my  simple  words  to  scorn; 

But  we  know  how  many  heroes, 
O'er  whom  triumph-banners  waved, 

By  the  pure  love  of  a  woman 
From  a  darker  fate  were  saved. 

And  we  know  how  some  have  struggled 
With  a  life  but  half  complete ; 

Groping,  stumbling  by  the  wayside — 
'Reft  of  woman-teachings  sweet. 

Man,  in  lion-hearted  power 

Sternly  meets  the  darkest  day, 

But  the  small  hand  of  a  woman 
Puts  the  briars  from  his  way ; 

And  her  strength — born  out  of  weakness  - 
Clinging  to  the  Saviour's  cross, 

Bears  him  up  through  many  a  trial, 
And  through  many  a  bitter  loss ! 

And  her  faith  that  shames  the  angels, 
Nerves  her  slender  feet  to  go 

Where  his  strong  steps  cannot  follow, 
Or  fall  faltering  and  slow. 


Lincoln's  Re-election  (1864).  289 

She  can  see  things  that  are  hidden 
From  his  proud,  impatient  eyes; 

And  her  keen,  instinctive  knowledge 
Pierces  through  all  fine  disguise. 

So  I  think  more  gently-softly 

Of  this  solitary  man, 
Walking,  singly,  through  such  mazes 

Since  his  lonely  life  began. 

Had  her*  head  lain  on  his  bosom, 

Had  her  hand  clung  to  his  own, 
Oh,  what  stainless,  quenchless  glory 

O'er  this  clouded  life  had  shone. 

With  her  woman's  love  to  temper 
All  the  .sternness  of  his  strength 

She  had  led  him  through  the  darkness, 
Safely  to  the  light  at  length. 

Sad,  forsaken,  and  uncertain 

In  his  failing  hold  on  life — 
O !  I  pity  more  than  blame  him, 

For  he  never  had  a  wife ! 

*It  is  said  that  in  early  life  Mr.  Buchanan  loved  and  was 
beloved  by  a  sweet,  pure  girl.  The  opposition  of  friends  broke 
off  the  match  and  she  died  not  long  afterwards. 


LINCOLN'S  RE-ELECTION   (1864) 

Well  done  !  redeemed  Nation  ! 

Well  done  !  victorious  land ! 
Now,  surely  God  shall  set  thee 

Near  to  His  right  hand. 
Now,  surely  Wrong  shall  falter 

And  all  its  forces  fail, 
When  'neath  thy  righteous  verdict 

Our  home-bred  traitors  quail. 


290  Later   Poems 

Oh  Country,   sorely  smitten ! 

Sublime  in  greatest  ne'ed, 
The  world  is  debtor  to  thee 

Because  of  this  one  deed. 
What  thanks  the  Nations  owe  thee 

The  coming  time  shall  tell, 
For  lo !  the  morning  dawneth 

And  all  shall  yet  be  well ! 

No  tear  shall  fall  unheeded, 

No  sob  shall  rise  in  vain, 
Although  thy  martyred  heroes 

Lie  thick  on  every  plain. 
The  dear  God  shall  cherish 

These  jewels  in  his  crown — 
For  their  dear  sakes  His  blessing 

Upon  thee  cometh  down. 

From  martyrdom  to  glory — 

From  trial  unto  state — 
Out  of  the  vale  of  weeping 

Thou  shalt  go  forth  elate — 
And  hand  in  hand  go  with  thee 

A  brighter,  better  peace 
Than  any  born  of  slavery 

Or  nursed  in  slothful  ease. 

Go  on,  victorious  Nation! 

Go  on,  redeemed  land! 
Shake  from  thy  skirts  defilement, 
And  with  the  righteous  stand. 
Give  thee  in  loyal  earnest 

Thy  hand  put  boldly  forth. 
Once  pure,  thy  God  shall  make  thee 

His  viceroy  on  the  earth. 

Go  on,  redeemed  land ! 


After  Vicksburg  291 


AFTER  VICKSBURG. 

Ah,  God!  shall  tears  poured  out  like  rain, 
And  deathly  pangs,  and  praying  breath, 
And  faith  as  deep  and  strong  as  death, 

Be  given — and  all  in  vain? 

Thou  claimest  martyrs — they  are  given — 
What  shall  the  stern  demand  suffice? 
From  out  our  darkened  homes  arise 

Strong  cries  that  startle  Heaven. 

We  murmur  not — enduring  all 

With  broken  hearts  but  silent  lips; 
With  all  our  glories  in  eclipse, 

And  some  beyond  recall. 

We  stand  beside  our  dead — our  eyes 
In  patient  sufferance  raised  to  Thee ; 
And  kissed  the  still  brows  reverently — 

Behold  our  sacrifice ! 

Behold  our  sacrifice !     We  give 

The  best  blood  of  a  suffering  land ! 
A  nation's  heart  by  its  own  hand 

Is  stricken — that  Right  may  live ! 

No  failure  this !     God's  own  right  hand 
Of  victory  shall  write  it  down ! 
The  years  shall  strengthen  its  renown. 

Be  proud  of  it,  oh  Land! 

Thou  Christ !  the  Godhood  of  Thy  brow 
Paled  'neath  the  throes  of  mortal  pain; 


292  Later   Poems 

But  all  thy  glory  glows  again, 
Thrice-haloed,  'round  Thee  now! 

Give  us  the  martyr's  steadfast  power, 
So,   passing   our   Gethsemane, 
Our  glory  shall  but  brighter  be 

For  this,  our  trial  hour. 


SHERMAN. 

We  shall  call  on  thee  no  more, 

Sherman ! 

On  thy  last  march  art  thou  gone, 
Great  Captain,  yet  alone, 

Sherman ! 

All  dauntless  yet  forlorn 
Fighting  high,  night  to  morn, 
Breathless  and  sore  and  shorn, 

Sherman !  Sherman ! 

Thou  has  broken  thy  last  camp, 

Sherman ! 

But  to  a  soundless  drum, 
Only  spectres  around  thee  come, 

Sherman ! 

Full  battle  worn  and  sore 
Thou  art  facing  for  that  shore 
Where  battles  are  no  more, 

Sherman !  Sherman ! 

The  dark  came  and  the  rain, 

Sherman ! 

So  didst  thou  march  away 
Out  of  the  clouded  day, 

Sherman ! 


Signalings  293 

Alas  and  0,  alas ! 

That  we  had  to  let  thee  pass, 

Toward  that  Sea  of  Glass, 

Sherman!  Sherman! 

They  are  waiting  on  the  shore, 

Sherman ! 

They  are  stretching  arms  to  thee — 
March  on  and  thou  shalt  see, 

Sherman ! 

Aye,  the  last  great  deed  is  wrought, 
The  last  great  fight  is  fought, 
Sherman ! 

The  foe  is  put  to  rout, 

Sherman ! 

Dost  hear  that  welcoming  shout? 
The  last  bivouac  fire  is  out. 

Sherman !  Sherman ! 


SIGNALINGS. 

I. 

When  soldiers  go  footsore,  without  redress 

Too  long  upon  a  rough  and  dreary  road, 
In  time  their  heads  hang  low  and  spiritless, 

Nor  will  they  hurry  for  the  threats  that  goad. 
But  make  the  shrill-mouthed  trumpet  your  ally, 

Speak    courage    through    the    thunder    of    deep 

drums, 
They  will  forget  to  murmur  by  and  by. 

Each  will  o'ertop  the  weariness  that  numbs 
With  upheld  head  and  bright  unflinching  eye. 

Have  wings  grown  suddenly  upon  their  feet? 


294  Later  Poems 

No !     But   the   music   tells   them   it   is  sweet 
For  God  and  glory  and  our  land  to  die ! 

II. 

Sing  me  some  song  of  deeds  that  brush  the  bloom 

From  emulous  strivings;  for  my  sordid  soul 
Is  like  the  weaver  pent  up  at  his  loom, 

Who  works  peacemeal  and  never  sees  the  whole 
Till  toil  that  blindly  creeps  toward  the  sublime 

Brings  to  the  pale,  pinched  wretch  his  triumph 

hour. 
The  woven  picture,  perfect  as  a  rhyme, 

Charms  him  as  never  could  the  living  flower, 
I  see  my  work  too  close !     'Tis  but  the  chime 

Heard  from  afar  that  grows  in  mellowing  sweet 
ness. 

I  am  wholly  sick  of  mine  own  incompleteness ! 
Sing  me  a  step  away  from  the  earth  and  time ! 

III. 

Travelers,  when  lost  amid  the  snows  that  wind 
Their    white    arms    round    the    mountain,    with 
brows  set 

Toward  its  summit,  if  they  chance  to  find 
Footprints  before  them,  speedily  forget 

Their  late  despairings  and  go  straining  on. 
Thus,  I  am  lost,  not  half  way  up  the  hill, 

Though  by  some  beaten  track  I  might  have  gone 
Dismayed,  uncertain,  I  toil  upward  still, 

But  see  no  path  across  this  vast  unknown, 
Its  cold,  white  loneness  chills  me !     Only  show 
One  footprint  in  the  way  that  I  must  go 

And  make  me  strong  for  climbing  on  alone ! 


To  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  295 


TO  FRIENDS. 
TO  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

ON   HIS    SEVENTIETH   BIRTHDAY. 
[December  17,  1877.] 

Seventy  years,  my  friend,  hast  thou 
Calmly  trod  the  kindly  earth, 

And  their  seal  on  breast  and  brow 
Makes  me  love  their  ripened  worth. 

Dearer,  dearer  far  to  me 

Thy  thought-laden,  silvered  head; 
Thou  if  I  thy  prime  could  see, 

Bright  dark  locks  and  health's  sweet  red. 

"Ah,  at  seventy  all  is  said!" 

Nay,  friend !     Thou  hast  Youth  of  Soul ! 
Thou  hast  garnered  well  the  bread 

Of  the  heart — that  keeps  thee  whole. 

Only  because  winter  loved  thee, 
Hides  its  snow  within  thy  hair. 

Ah,  but  summer  too  hath  proved  thee, 
Round  thee  clings  its  genial  air. 

Seventy  years !     Be  glad,  my  friend. 

Their  experience  sets  thee  free. 
Lightly  'neath  them  dost  thou  bend, 

Beautiful  they  seem  to  me ! 


296  Later  Poems 

Let  me  put  my  hand  in  thine, 
Stand  with  thee  a  moment  here, 

Just  within  the  light  divine 

Shining  'round  thy  seventieth  year. 

If  the  way  was  long  and  hard, 

Looking  back,  how  short  it  seems. 

Nothing  now  is  missed  or  marred, 
All  is  better  than  thy  dreams ! 


TO  JOHN  ELDERKIN 

ON   HIS   WEDDING    DAY. 

Friend  of  the  later  and  the  long  gone  years! 

Ever  so  firm  and  gentle,  kind  and  true 
In  this  the  brightest  hour  your  fortune  bears, 

Shall  I  not  speak  to  you? 

Ah,  not  because  you  are  so  happy,  friend! 

You  need  not  me  to  give  your  gladness  voice. 
And  if  I  speak,  it  is  unto  this  end 

That  I  myself  rejoice. 

And  must  say  out  my  gladness  and  my  thanks 
With  what  content  my  thoughts   are  bent  your 
way. 

Though  I  stood  not  as  one  among  your  ranks 
Of  friends  upon  that  day. 

Not  in  the  flesh,  but  in  the  spirit,  my  friend, 
Eager  I  pressed  upon  your  onward  path, 

With  all  the  faith  that  kindly  memories  lend, 
All  strength  that  friendship  hath. 

And  not  one  heart  of  all  that  followed  you 

Pressed  closer  or  cried  blessing  more  than  mine, 


Prisca  297 

And  if  you  thought  me  careless  or  untrue, 
Old  friend,  know  by  this  sign: 

Not  one  of  all  the  seeds  of  kindliness 

And  faithfulness,  sown  thickly  through  the  years, 
That  at  last  sprang  into  fruitfulness 

And  perfect  harvest  bears. 

Take  time,  between  two  happy  heartbeats,  then, 
To  think  how  wholly  glad  I  am  for  you, 

And  know  me  as  I  come  and  go  again, 
Silent  and  true ! 


PRISCA. 

[St.  Prisca,  says  the  leg-end,  was  one  of  the  first  Roman  con 
verts  to  Christianity.  She  was  but  thirteen  when  she  was 
sentenced  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  a  lion  in  the  Coliseum. 
But  when  he  burst  into  the  amphitheatre,  instead  of  attack 
ing  her,  he  gently  licked  her  feet.  So  she  was  taken  back  to 
prison  and  beheaded  for  her  faith.] 

There  are  legends  of  the  Saints  martyrs 

That  will  tell  you  how  she  died 
In  the  dawn  of  virgin  sweetness, 

In  the  bud  of  maiden  pride. 
And  I  think  that  I  can  see  her, 

As  that  afternoon  she  stood 
In  the  echoing  Coliseum, 

In  her  wonderous  martyr  mood. 

Not  a  day  beyond  thirteen! 

0,  the  spirit  of  the  child! 
Standing  in  her  robes  of  whiteness, 

Pure,  serene  and  undefiled, 
All  alone  before  those  thousands, 

Waiting  for  his  coming  in, 


298  Later  Poems 

In  the  hush  that  made  betrayal 
For  the  falling  of  a  pin ! 

Other  tales  of  saints  and  martyrs 

Never  moved  me  like  to  this. 
I  can  see  that  lifted  forehead 

Worthy  the  Madonna's  kiss. 
I  can  see  the  rose  of  childhood 

Flushing  still  her  girlish  cheek 
While  her  child  hand  puts  the  fillet 

From  her  temples,  young  and  meek. 

Who  shall  wonder  that  the  dwelling 

Of  her  eyes  upon  his  own 
Conquered  even  the  hungry  lion 

By  the  light  that  in  them  shone; — 
Drew  them  by  their  power  of  sweetness 

To  the  side  of  that  rare  child? 
Till  the  people  saw  him  crouching 

Where  she  stood,  in  radiance  mild. 

But  the  hearts  of  men  were  fiercer 

Than  the  lion's  in  his  need. 
Though  the  kingly  beast  was  vanquished, 

Romans  did  the  savage  deed. 
Sad  the  tale  the  legend  tells  us 

Of  how  little  Prisca  died 
With  a  light  around  her  forehead 

And  a  lily  at  her  side. 


Wilhelmine  299 


WILHELMINE. 

[She  lived  nobly,  suffered  bravely,  and  died  fearlessly.] 


Ah !     She  had  such  splendid  eyes ! 

Dusk  brown  eyes,  akin  to  black, 
Large  and  full  and  deeply  set — 

Looking  forward  less  than  back; 
Eyes  replete  with  self-possession, 
Eyes  so  grand  in  self -repression ; 
But  all  hope  was  wept  out  of  them, 

Only  longings  fed  their  fires ; 
And  the  sad  brow  set  above  them 

Spoke  unsatisfied  desires. 

n. 

Cheeks  like  dying  damask  roses 

Washed  and  pale  by  sorrow's  rain, 
And  a  gracious  mouth  grown  rigid 

In  its  set,  from  years  of  pain. 
And  her  faultless  woman's  head ! 
Grecian  sculptors  ages  dead 
Would  have  bowed  them  reverently 
To  the  perfect  revelation 

Of  the  classic  marble's  need — 
Would  have  knelt  in  adoration 

Of  dear  Nature's  darling  deed! 

III. 

I  have  seen  no  other  foot 
Thoroughbred  and  lithe  as  hers: 
When  before  Canova's  graces, 


300  Later  Poems 

Its  remembrance  in  me  stirs. 

Instep,  so  divinely  curved ! 
Outline,  faultlessly  preserved! 
Ah  !     Thou  wonder  among  women ! 
I  am  fretted  to  the  heart, 

Thinking  how  my  words  are  few 
To  depict  thee  as  thou  wert — 

What  I  will,  I  cannot  do. 

IV. 

Neck,  so  slender  and  so  straight, 

White  and  stately  as  a  lily ; 
And  a  perfect  shape  but  illy 

Fitted  for  her  Life's  hard  lot. 
Now  it  moulders,  all  forgot — 
Burgeons  into  violets — 
And  no  painter's  hand  hath  traced  it 

With  the  cunning  of  his  craft — 
All  the  subtle  charms  that  graced  it 

Gone  like  nectar,  spilt  or  quaffed! 

V. 

Let  this  be  thy  compensation: 

That  thou  livest  in  my  love; 
Whose  sweet  soul  was  to  thy  body 

What  the  hand  is  to  the  glove. 
I  shall  never  see  another 
Like  to  thee  my  noble  mother! 
Mind  of  Man  and  soul  of  Woman — 
All  my  heart  out  of  me  goes — 

Spent  in  unavailing  tears — 
When  I  think  upon  thy  woes, 

Ponder  over  thy  martyred  years ! 


Faust's  Margaret  at  Virgin's  Altar          301 


LOVE. 


FAUST'S   MARGARET   AT   THE   VIRGIN'S 
ALTAR. 

How  can  I  live?    How  can  I  live,  dear  heaven! 

When  all  my  life  is  torn  with  anguish  wild? 
Fair  Mother!    Sanctified  by  Sorrows  Seven, 

Look  on  me,  for  the  sake  of  Christ,  thy  Child 
Whom  thou  didst  carry  'neath  thy  virgin  bosom 

Awhile  in  silence,  weighed  down  with  scorn, 
After  God  sent  His  Angel  with  the  blossom 

And  that  sweet  message,  touching  thy  unborn. 

Ah,  woe  is  me !    I  dare  not  touch  a  lily ! 

When   I  would   say,   "For   my   child's   sake" — 0, 

shame ! 
Such  prayer  befits  my  tarnished  lips  but  illy, 

I  blush  to  think  I  bear  a  mother's  name. 
Yet,  0,  because  my  sorrow  is  a  sorrow — 

Though  thine  was  pure  and  mine  is  born  of  sin — 
Help  me  to  hope  that  some  divine  tomorrow 

God's  grace  will  lift  the  latch  and  let  me  in. 

But  now,  not  for  myself,  on  weak  knees  bended, 
Dear,  Dolorous  Mother !  do  I  seek  thine  eyes, 

For  all  my  hope  of  self  on  earth  is  ended — 
Never  can  joy  again  in  me  uprise! 
Still  thou,  that  Virgin,  wert  yet  mother-hearted, 
Canst  pity  this  poor  mother-heart  within 

My  stained  bosom,  nigh  with  pain  disparted. 
Where  harbors  the  sweet  sinless  child  of  sin ! 


302  Later  Poems 

Then  by  thy  Seven  Dolors  I  implore  thee, 

Let  thy  uplifted  glances  plead  for  me; 
Think   of   the   night   of   blackness   that   swept   o'er 
thee 

When  thy  child  hung  for  sin  upon  the  tree ; 
Sinless,  yet  suffering  for  the  sins  of  others 

As  well  I  know  my  child  must  suffer  too ; 
Forget  but  that  we  both  are  anguished  Mothers, 

And  let  my  babe  hide  'neath  thy  mantle  blue! 

Ah,  take  it,  ere  the  world  hath  quite  undone  it! — 

Ah,  let  us  die :   dear  heaven,  let  us  both  die ! — 
Far  better  that  the  sun  look  not  upon  it. 

And  0,  how  sweet  in  the  green  grave  to  lie ! 
There  hiding,  with  my  baby  on  my  bosom, 

The  world's  scorn,  never  should  our  rest  invade; 
Even  a  lily  o'er  our  grave  might  blossom, 

And  some  pure  tears  be  dropped  there  by  a  maid ! 


Ah,  God!  what  is  it?    Whence  is  this  temptation? 

Pity  my  burning  brain,  my  breaking  heart! 
For  my  child's  sake  give  patience  for  salvation — 

Or  let  us  creep  up  nearer  where  Thou  art ! 


EN  PASSANT. 
I. 

Was  that  your  face?     Why  I  have  seen  it  splendid 
As  the  Archangel's  shining  through  my  dreams! 

If  that  were  your  true,  earthly  self,  it  seems 
That  all  my  dreaming  should  be  sharply  ended. 

II. 

Just  gilmpsed  in  passing!    Am  I  wiser  for  it? 
How  thick  the  ice  has  grown  'twixt  you  and  me! 


Exorcism  303 

Yet  from  the  first  we  knew  it  was  to  be. 
Which  is  the  most  unconquerable  spirit? 

III. 

Your  own,  or  mine?     Yet,  I  imagine  somewhat 
I  am  the  victor.     There  was  such  a  look 

Upon  you;  as  if  something  in  you  shook. 

Nay !    I  care   not  for   this   late   triumph.      Come 
what  will. 

IV. 

Still  may  of  wear  and  change  to  dim  its  brightness, 
One  moment's  passing  glance  into  your  face 

So  dear  to  me  is,  God  be  thanked,  His  grace 
I  love  your  darkness  as  I  loved  your  lightness. 

V. 

And  if  no  more  to  pass  ye  Christ  me  giveth, 
Take  my  forgiveness,  would  be  scornful  eyes! 

I  know  the  wistful  heart  that  'neath  ye  lies; 
I  know  the  hunger  that  in  two  breasts  liveth ! 

New  York,   November  14,  1874. 


EXORCISM. 

Ah,  poor,  pale  face !  Why  will  you  come  between 
me 

And  the  bitter  and  heavy  purpose  of  my  heart? 
Face,  like  the  face  of  him  who  hath  forgotten  me, 

You  vex  my  soul,  and  I  summon  you  to  depart. 

Let  me  alone,  pale  face,  we  are  divided. 

There's  an  end  of  the  loving  betwixt  him  and  me. 
My  heart  can  never  excuse  away  his  falseness — 

I  never  will  smile  upon  you — let  me  be ! 


304  Later   Poems 

You  are  not  his  face ;  albeit,  you  are  so  like  him, 
As  he  used  to  be,  in  the  sweet  time,  long  ago. 

The  same  sad  eyes,  so  large,  and  so  full  of  loving; 
And  the  mouth  that  kissed,  and  clung,  and  would 

not  go ! 

j 

The  same  pale  face !    Always  to  mine  uplifted, 
Till  I,  pitying,  took  its  wanness  betwixt  my  hands ; 

And  out  of  my  fingers  made  for  it  a  framing 
Of  tenderest  white  and  ruddily-tinted  bands. 

I  wonder,  now,  that  you  linger  here  to  vex  me. 

'Twere  a  little  thing  that  you  should  let  me  rest; 
Since  I  know,  pale  face,  that  I  am  forgotten— for 
gotten  ! 

And  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  it  is  not  best. 

Ah,  poor,  pale  face  !  I  know  you  now,  for  the  mirage 
Of  my  heavy  misery,  pluralling  itself. 

Sometimes  the  page,  black-lettered,  comes  before  us, 
Though  the  book  be  closed  and  lying  on  the  shelf. 

His  face — not  as  it  is,  but  as  I'd  have  it — 

If  I  could  look  through  the  sibyl's  magic  glass ; 

Into  the  quiet  street  in  that  grey  old  city, 

And  the  door  should  open  and  I  should  see  him 
pass! 


LOST. 

Fade,  0 !  Day,  so  chill  and  dreary, 
Hide  thee  in  the  arms  of  night, 

And  these  scenes  of  wasted  beauty, 
Shut  them  from  my  aching  sight — 

Falls  the  rain  in  dirge-like  cadence, 
Chants  the  wind  a  funeral  rhyme, 


Lost  305 

And  such  bitter,  bitter  memories 
Haunt  this  dreary  autumn  time- 

And  I  cannot  any  longer 

Still  my  spirit's  pleading  cry, 
And  the  tortured  soul  within  me 

Must  have  utterance  or  die. 
Ah !  this  awful  gulf  of  silence 

Stretching  between  your  life  and  mine, 
Never  ray  of  cheering  sunlight 

O'er  its  awful  depths  may  shine. 

And  I  stretched  my  arms  in  pleading, 

So  unutterable  and  deep — 
God!     If  I  could  only  cross  it, 

On  your  neck  to  fall  and  weep ! 
Ah !     If  I  can  but  feel  the  darkness, 

Can  but  see  the  clouds  that  lie 
Lead  like,  shutting  out  the  sunshine 

From  my  future  voiceless  sky. 

Ah !    I  cannot  any  longer 

Crush  the  passionate  thoughts  that  rise, 
I  have  struggled  long  and  bravely, 

I  have  worn  a  proud  disguise, 
But  my  heart  is  worn  and  bleeding 

And  its  life-drops  ebb  away. 
I  am  faint,  forgive  my  weakness, 

I  have  suffered  so  today! 

Can  but  stand  and  send  my  moaning, 

Vainly  to  the  farther  shore, 
Feeling  that  I  may  not  reach  you, 

Feeling  you  art  mine  no  more ! 
Hadst  you  died,  I  had  not  murmured 

For  my  treasure  gone  before, 
I  had  kissed  your  eyes  and  whispered 

And  the  hoarded  lore  of  yore.  j 


306  Later   Poems 

But  —  to  find  it  sternly  trampled 

'Neath  your  unheeding  feet, 
Then  flung  back  upon  the  giver 

With  a  cruel  scorn  unmeet! 
Yet,  0  lost  one,  I  forgive  you 

Those  last  cruel,  crushing  words  _ 
I  could  kiss  the  hand  that  rudely 

Tore  my  spirit's  bleeding  chords. 

I  forgive  you  all  my  suffering, 

All  these  weary  nights  of  woe, 
And  the  blight  flung  o'er  my  future, 

All  because  I  love  you  so  ! 
When  they  leave  me  cold  and  silent, 

When  the  passionate  pain  is  past, 
You  will  know  I  never  wronged  you  _ 

Know  me  faithful  to  the  last. 

But  I  never  wronged  you,  dearest, 

Never  was  in  thought  untrue  ; 
All  my  highest,  holiest  heart-throbs 

And  the  inmost  —  were  for  you. 
When  they  leave  me  cold  and  silent, 

When  the  passionate  pain  is  past, 
You  will  know  I  never  wronged  you  _ 

Know  me  faithful  to  the  last! 


to  him 


What !  wilt  thou  have  this  wornout  hand, 

So  late  to  lie  in  thine? 
What!    Shines  the  sun  so  bright  today, 

Thoust  blinded  by  its  shine? 

Or  rather  hast  thou  gone  in  soul 
Back  to  that  long  ago 


Later  Poems  307 

When  this  poor  hand  was  soft  as  silk 
And  nigh  as  fair  as  snow? 

Ah !  then  'twas  meet  to  prop  the  brow 

Where  shadows  never  stayed. 
'Twas  meet  to  lift  and  bind  away 

The  brown  hair  of  a  maid! 

'Twas  meet  to  shade  bright  eyes  that  looked 

Always  toward  the  sun. 
But,  ah,  that  girl  of  long  ago 

And  I — we  are  not  one ! 

But  I,  though  I  am  sad  and  worn 

And  fallen  from  my  best, 
Will  not  pretend  my  sun  is  high 

When  it  is  in  the  West. 

I  scorn  to  hold  a  light  old  coin 

At  its  first  worth  to  buy 
The  fair  new  trappings  of  today. 

You're  just  and  so  am  I ! 

You  say  that  if  my  looks  are  old, 

Why  then  so  is  your  love — 
How  soon  you  locked  it  in  the  drawer 

With  this  old-fashioned  glove ! 

Not  either  of  the  ancient  twain 

Is  fit  to  see  the  light. 
No  more  than  is  my  shrinking  face, 

And  so,  sweet  heart,  good  night. 

No !  No !  I  am  too  proud  to  let 

Your  kisses  lie  thereon, 
To  let  you  love  me  for  the  sake 

Of  what  is  past  and  gone. 

I  am  not  what  I  might  have  been, 
And  this  indeed  is  why 


308  Later   Poems 

I  sob  upon  your  breast,  sweetheart, 
Good  night  and  aye,  good  bye ! 


I,  sitting  silent  by  the  sea, 

Had  one  sweet  thought,  my  own  sweetheart,  of  thee 
That  in  the  twilight  came  and  gladdened  me 
Like  a  tender  hand. 

Since  all  my  life  has  been  one  vain  demand, 
One  fruitless  striving  toward  the  far-off  land 
Of  Love  assured,  beyond  this  shifting  sand 
Of  dreary  doubt: 

Seeing  how  Love  hath  cast  complaisance  out, 
Seeing  how  Love  hath  grown  my  life  about, 
Lifting  my  soul,  as  honor  lifts  the  lout, 
Nearer  the  stars. 

When  that  my  heart  shall  have  beat  through  its  bars 
And  healed  of  all  its  deep  and  ancient  scars, 
Lies  down  aweary  of  its  well  won  wars, 
To  slumbers  bliss. 

If  some  sweet  woman  should  draw  near,-  nor  miss 
The  name  that  tells  her  dust  of  mine  was  this 
Saying,  with  sigh  as  tender  as  a  kiss, 
In  whisper  low: 

"Was  she  not  fair  since  he  sang  of  her  so? 
Ah,  fair  and  sweet  and  good  she  was,  I  know, 
Seeing  his  life  unaccompanied  could  go 
For  the  sake  of  her." 

And  then  I  think  that  it  will  thrill  and  stii 
Even  in  the  dust,  thy  low  mute  worshipper, 


The  Sweet  Old  Fashion  of  Loving  309 

The  indivisible  heart  I  gave  thee  here 
Steadfast  as  doom. 

And  maybe  if  a  white  rose  be  in  bloom — 
Sweetening  the  place  of  graves  with  its  perfume, 
Like  a  fair  nun  within  a  convent  room — 
If  in  my  dust 

The  fibres  of  its  wandering  roots  be  thrust 
A  pale  pink  light  may  glow  about  it  just 
As  in  the  hearing  of  you  my  cheek  must 
Betray  heart's  trust. 

0,  Love !  Love !  Love !  Thou  that  art  set  to  flee, 

Let  th*  wind  follow  thy  flying  feet 

That  I  may  not  see 

In  the  white  shore  sand  thy  footprints  shapen 

Turning  away  from  me, 

For  mv  hands  are  hot,  strong  to  hold  thee, 

My  arms  are  too  weak  to  fold  thee. 

So  pass  away 
As  the  sun  goes  under  the  falling  curtain 

Of  finished  day! 


THE  SWEET  OLD  FASHION  OF  LOVING. 

O  'tis  sad,  sad  work  to  love  and  to  lose, 
And  so  much  of  it  makes  us  weary, 

As  we  stumble  ahead  on  the  road  of  life, 
Where  the  shadows  are  dark  and  dreary. 

But  I'd  rather  die  of  loving  too  well, 
And  that  fatal  love,  if  proving 

Then  that  ever  my  heart  should  forget  to 
follow 


310  Later   Poems 

The  sweet  old  fashion  of  loving ! 
The  sweet  old  fashion  of  loving ! 

O  take,  if  you  will,  the  red  from  my  cheek, 

And  take  the  pulse  from  my  hand, 
And  darken  my  eyes  to  the  springtime  light 

And  the  blossoming  of  the  land; 
Take  all  the  rest  that  is  sweetest  and  best, 

And  mightiest  at  heart  moving, 
But  let  me  take  to  the  far  country 

The  sweet  old  fashion  of  loving ! 

The  sweet  old  fashion  of  loving ! 

Ah,  yes !   I  might  give  up  every  one 

Of  the  roses  of  June  so  sweet ! 
And  the  dark  blue  violets  that  lie 

So  lovingly  at  my  feet! 
And  everything  in  this  great  swee-t  world, 

And  count  it  but  love's  bequest. 
But  never !  in  life  or  death, 

The  sweet  old  fashion  of  loving ! 

The  sweet  old  fashion  of  loving ! 

And  though  it  may  bring  tears  to  my  eyes, 

And  bring  the  pain  to  my  heart, 
With  the  lonely  yearning  for  what  is  not, 

That  makes  love's  bitterest  part, 
As  the  nightingale  hides  the  thorn  in  her 

breast, 

Though  the  pain  is  all  proving, 
I  will  not  cure  mine,  if  with  it  must  go 

The  sweet  old  fashion  of  loving ! 

The  sweet  old  fashion  of  loving ! 


Three  Flowers  in  One  311 


THREE  FLOWERS  IN  ONE. 

She  shows  a  cheek  as  delicately  pale 

As  any  frail,  untimely,,  foundling  flower 
On  the  Spring's  threshold  dropt,  when  storms  pre 
vail; 

The  improvident  gift  of  an  imprudent  hour. 
But  would  you  see 
This  white  anemone 
Straightway  become  the  daintiest  of  blush  roses? 

Wait  till  she  sits  communing  silently 
With  her  clear  thoughts — less  shy  when  she  sup 
poses 

That  no  eyes  trace 
Her  fancies  in  her  face, 

And  then,  unseen,  behind  her,  bend  your  lips 
To  that  fine  ear,  and  whisper — just  a  name. 
First  ravishing  pink  doth  this  smooth  snow  eclipse, 
Pure  as  the  heart  from  whence  its  nurture  came ; 
Then,  wonder  upon  wonder,  our  blush  rose 

Slowly  into  the  deepest  damask  grows. 
Rare  trinity  of  snow  and  flesh  and  flame, 
Born  of  a  maiden's  innocent  sweet  shame ! 


To  not  believe  in  Love — Ah,  me ! 

When  once  I  did  believe, 
Nothing  could  hurt  my  loyal  heart, 

Nor  make  me  long  to  grieve. 
And,  like  a  bird  upon  the  bough 

In  Eden's  virgin  grove, 
The  lilt  of  every  song  I  sang 

Was  Love,  was  Love,  was  Love ! 


312  Later  Poems 

I  never  doubted  once  that  he 

Would  come  to  me  a  king, 
And  wrap  me  in  his  royal  robe, 

And  seal  me  with  his  ring ; 
And  every  breeze  that  stirred  my  hair, 

And  every  wayside  flower 
Set  all  my  life  athrill  with  hope 

Of  that  expected  hour ! 

Alas,  if  I  had  only  lived 

In  dreams  with  my  ideal, 
Nor  sought  to  give  the  fiction  life 

To  wail  and  find  it  real, 
Then  never  had  my  hot  hands  struck 

The  false  god  to  my  feet, 
Finding  the  lie  that  men  call  Love 

Was  bitter,  and  not  sweet! 

'Twas  like  as  if  a  brutal  hand 

Smote  hard  upon  my  mouth, 
That  was  as  full  of  song  as  winds 

That  wander  from  the  South ; 
And  I  forgot  the  sweetest  trick 

My  lips  had  ever  known; 
My  songs  had  been  my  company, 

And  now  I  was  alone. 

Alone,  and  never  more  to  watch, 

-As  I  had  watched  before, 
Working  and  waiting,  listening  for 

Love's  footsteps  at  the  door. 
Thenceforth  my  life  could  never  find 

Its  olden,  healthy  groove, 
Because  upon  me  fell  this  doom — 

To  not  believe  in  Love ! 

For  Faith  and  Hope  had  fallen  from  me; 
No  more  the  world  was  bright. 


Later  Poems  313 

There  was  no  meaning  in  my  heart 

When  any  named  Delight. 
I  see  them  play  at  Love  whose  play 

Is  worth  a  worn-out  glove — 
Is  it  fate  who  dare  the  proof 

To  not  believe  in  Love? 


0  the  hearts  that  have  burst  and  the  hearts  that 

have  ached  and  have  broken! 
And  the  strong  that  have  drifted  to  wreck, 
Trying  to  speak  in  the  tongue  not  here  to  be  spoken 
And  to  brush  from  their  eyes  the  speck. 

The  dazzling  mote  that  swam  between  their  seeing, 

And  the  things  desired  to  be  seen, 
All  their  lives  long  they  picked  at  the  problem, 

And  at  last — well,  their  graves  are  green ! 

And  whether  to  lie  under  foot,  like  the  worm  up 
turning, 

Kiss  the  dust,  and  make  no  more  sign, 
Or  whether  to  loosen  the  thoughts  in  the  soul  in- 
burning, 
And  touch  the  train  that  kindles  the  mine. 

Or  whether  to  say,  All  things  go  on  without  me; 
I  may  dance,  and  may  drink,  and  may  feast ; 

1  cannot  escape  from  the  web  that  has  grown  about 

me, 
For  the  sun  must  still  rise  in  the  East. 

You,  through  the  might  of  all  men  that  ever  existed 

And  of  all  that  shall  ever  exist, 
Were  into  one  drop  of  being  compressed  and  con 
gested 

To  rise,  revolt,  and  resist ! 


314  Later   Poems 


I  will  not  speak  in  fulsome  phrase 

Of  glowing  cheeks  and  waving  tresses ; 
I  leave  them  for  the  insincere; 

My  heart  a  higher  aim  possesses. 
I  leave  the  flatterer's  flowery  page 

To  those  who  nothing  deeper  know, 
And  in  my  simple,  homely  way 

I  tell  you  that  I  love  you  so ! 

Your  sunny  smile,  your  warm  caress, 

Are  dearer  than  angelic  graces ; 
I  love  to  hear  your  gentle  step 

Among  the  pleasant  household  places. 
I  turn  away  from  brighter  eyes, 

From  sweeter  voices'  polished  flow, 
Impatient  for  your  kindly  face, 

Because  I  love  you  so ! 

And  so,  though  others  be  forgot, 

Your  memory  will  ever  linger, 
Untarnished  by  the  mold  of  years, 

Unblotted  by  time's  ruthless  finger. 
I  leave  this  pledge,  before  my  feet 

From  dear  Argyle  are  forced  to  go — 
But  don't  forget  when  I  am  gone — 

I  love  you,  oh,  I  love  you  so ! 


Rehearsal  315 


REHEARSAL. 

It  must  come  to  this  some  day, 
Friend,  for  me  as  well  as  you; 

I  must  learn  to  put  away, 
Learn  this  bitter  thing  to  do. 

Let  me  now  to  you  be  true, 
As  you  sure  would  be  to  me ; 

These  unseeing  eyes  of  blue, 
Look  not  in  them,  and  let  be 

These  unanswering  hands  and  lips. 

I  will  do  all  decently; 
Fold  these  icy  fingertips, 

Put  these  dead  eyes  in  eclipse. 

Though  it  stab  my  heart  with  pain, 
Keener  thou  the  frost  that  nips, 

I  must  do  all  this  again — 
Nay,  I  see  myself  so  plain 

In  the  time  that  is  to  come, 

Beaten  down  like  shattered  grain, 

In  my  own  invaded  home, 

Or,  like  seaweed  on  the  foam, 

Drifting,  worthless,  here  and  there ; 

Torn  up,  evermore  to  roam 
Homeless,  'twixt  the  earth  and  air — 

Minding  me  how  life  was  fair, 

When  the  breath  was  in  one  month, 
Sweet  and  safe,  serene  and  rare, 


Later   Poems 

As  a  flower  bank  in  the  South ! 

Then — the  bleak,  black,  bitter  drouth ! 

If  I  live  this  thing  must  be — 
Or  some  one  must  bear  for  me 

All  this  bitter  misery 

That  creeps  on  us  unaware ! 


GRIEVE  NOT  THE  HEART  THAT  LOVES  THEE. 

Grieve  not  the  heart  that  loves  thee; 

Not  oft  is  true  love  found; 
Then  hold  it  not  so  light  to  pierce 

One  heart  with  deathful  wound ; 
A  fragile  vase,  a  costly  cup, 

In  sooth,  it  is  light  to  break; 
But  tell  me — can  a  skillful  hand 

The  shattered  thing  remake? 

Grieve  not  the  heart  that  loves  thee ; 

Be  sure  thou  wilt  repent ; 
The  poisoned  shaft  of  pain  rebounds 

On  him  by  whom  'twas  sent ; 
There's  not  a  single  unkind  word, 

One  dark,  unloving  look, 
But  conscience  faithfully  records 

In  memory's  varied  book. 

Grieve  not  the  heart  that  loves  thee ; 

When  separation's  past; 
"When  the  dear  one  is  gone  from  thee, 

And  tears  come  thick  and  fast; 
Then,  then,  the  ghosts  of  those  harsh  acts 

Will  rise  in  strict  array; 
With  bitter,  unavailing  truth, 

Sad  love  will  mourn  and  pray. 


The  Sheaf  of  the  Years  317 

Grieve  not  the  heart  that  loves  thee; 

For,  trust  me,  they  who  feel, 
Know  how  the  sneer-sent  shaft  of  scorn 

Can  match  the  glittering  steel; 
And  none,  none  but  the  wounded  one 

May  tell  how  deep  and  sharp 
The  pain  that  tears  one  rough-struct  string 

Upon  the  spirit's  harp. 

Grieve  not  the  heart  that  loves  thee, 

The  heart  that  loves  thee  so ; 
'T would  lose  its  own  best  blood  before 

Thy  dearer  life  should  flow! 
Anger,  I  think,  is  quick  to  flash, 

Yet  pause  and  think  awhile, 
Then  shalt  thou  speak  in  gentler  tone, 

If  not  with  loving  smile. 

Grieve  not  the  heart  that  loves  thee, 

Grieve  not  the  gentle  one ; 
The  trusting  spirit  ill  can  brook 

One  harsh,  unloving  tone ! 
Grieve  not  the  heart  that  loves  thee, 

Cloud  not  its  tranquil  sky. 
0  never  meet  the  glance  of  love 

With  cold,  unfeeling  eye. 


THE  SHEAF  OF  THE  YEARS. 

The  years  !     The  wonderful  years  ! 

Baby  dimples  and  April  tears ! 

The  apple  blossoms'  divine  perfume, 

The  red  rosebud  and  the  violet  bloom. 

Are  these  the  best  and  brightest  of  all? 

Because  you  dream  of  your  father's  call, 

Of  your  sister's  song,  and  your  brother's  face, 

And  your  mother's  tender,  unselfish  grace. 


318  Later   Poems 

f 

0  the  years !     The  passionate  years  ! 
The  love  of  youth,  and  its  hopes  and  fears, 
Its  storm  and  stress,  and  its  hungry  heart, 
The  pain  of  souls  that  but  meet  to  part, 
Feet  that  search  for  the  thorniest  way, 
And  follow  it  bleeding  till  brought  to  bay ; 
High  hearts,  brave  spirits,  and  blades  untried, 
And  the  sudden  falls  that  await  young  pride ! 

0 !  next  the  ripening  years  of  our  fuller  life, 
The  clasp  of  his  hands,  the  clinging  wife, 
The  nested  nook,  with  its  sheltering  abode ; 
Its  shielded  nestlings,  its  watchful  love ; 
These  alternate  with  the  strain  of  strife, 
And  the  din  of  the  high,  hot  noon  of  life, 
The  hungry  heart  and  the  burning  word ; 
For  these  are  the  years  of  the  unsheathed  sword. 

Alas,  for  the  years  that  seem  all  cold, 

When  the  head  grows  grey  and  the  face  grows  old; 

When  the  leaves  fall  fast  from  Life's  withering  tree, 

And  never  a  ship  comes  home  from  sea. 

The  years  that  grow  dim  with  a  tear,  with  mist, 

Till  we  search  in  vain  for  the  lips  that  we  kissed; 

Till  the  chill  fog  swallows  the  faces  dear 

That  made  our  summer  for  many  a  year. 

Last  come  the  years  of  a  pensive  peace, 
The  looking  westward  for  God's  release ; 
Gather  them  all  into  one  close  sheaf, 
The  years  of  joy,  and  the  years  of  grief ; 
The  years  that  bless  and  the  years  that  burn, 
Winter's  rigor  and  summer's  charm; 
And  write  on  the  bound-up  sheaf,  "God's  will!" 
Love,  labor,  and  suffer,  and  then  be  still ! 


The  Pioneer  Women  of  California          319 


THE  PIONEER  WOMEN  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Working,  working,  working, 

Along  through  weary  weeks, 
Brows  a  network  of  wrinkles, 

Worn  and  pallid  cheeks ; 
Clothes  for  the  men  and  children, 

And  themselves,  to  last  a  year, 
And  gathering  up  their  belongings 

With  goodbys  far  and  near. 

Then,  bundling  into  the  wagons, 

In  spring  to  cross  the  plains — 
How  many  tragical  legends 

Cling  round  those  o'erladen  wains! 
Of  all  those  devoted  women 

Do  you  wonder  so  many  are  dead! 
Rather  that  any  are  living, 

Should  we  marvel  instead. 

For  they  worked  to  get  ready  to  start, 

And  they  worked  on  the  way  across, 
Nor  laid  down  their  household  burdens, 

In  time  of  trial  and  loss. 
For  the  work  of  a  working  woman 

Is  never,  never  done, 
Till  her  hands  lie  still  forever, 

And  her  final  rest  is  won. 

If  you  want  to  know  how  they  struggled 
As  they  dropped  along  Life's  way. 

Ask  of  a  few  of  those  women 

Who  were  spared  to  live  till  today. 

Never  a  saint  nor  a  martyr 
So  richly  deserved  a  crown, 


320  Uilei    Poerns 

And  cursed  be  the  son  of  a  mother 
Who  drags  their  memory  down. 

Men  of  the  Golden  West ! 
./  ;      Women  more  brave  and  pure, 

For  husbands  and  home  and  children 

More  steadfast  to  endure, 
Than  your  own  undaunted  woman 

Never  have  breathed  life's  breath, 
And  he  that  would  defame  them 

Merits  a  shameful  death. 

Stand  up !     Stand  up  in  your  manhood, 

To  repel  the  cowardly  slur 
Fiercely,  all  and  each  of  you, 

For  the  memory  of  "Her," 
Since  every  slighting  word 

Straight  to :  each  man's  heart  goes, 
Since  most  of  their  lips  are  silent, 

Never  more  to  unclose. 

Do  more  for  these  steel-true  comrades, 

So  fragile,  and  yet  so  brave, 
Each  silently  worked  and  suffered, 

Till  she  fell  by  her  waiting  grave. 
Alas !  how  few  of  the  many 

Still  live  to  tell  the  tale ! 
Do  them  all  a  little  justice, 

Ere  all  have  sought  Death's  vale ! 

Build  them  up  a  monument — 

You  can  but  give  them  a  stone — 
But  let  them  lie  no  longer, 

Forgotten,  condemned,  alone. 
Build  up  your  grandest  monument 

To  them,  alive  and  dead, 
And  give  the  lie  to  the  coward's  word, 

Nor  leave  the  Truth  unsaid! 


The  Lesson  of  Our  Loss  321 


THE  LESSON  OF  OUR  LOSS. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    HENRY    GEORGE. 
["I  will  sit  here  awhile." — Last  words  of  Henry  George.] 

He  has  gone  from  us  at  last, 

True  and  Faithful  Knight ! 
Spotless  from  the  lists  he  passed, 

Death-hurt  in  the  fight. 

Painfully  we  strained  to  see, 

Helpless,  standing  by,     ; 
That  grim  contest,  silently 

Waged,  till  night  drew  nigh.      -;: 

Till  he  could  not  see  to  fight, 

Had  not  strength  to  stand ; 
Slowly  sank,  the  while  the  light 

Faded  from  the  land. 

Sank  so  gradually  to  earth 

That  we  scarcely  knew 
When  his  latest .  breath  went  forth 

From  his  lips  so  true. 

Hardly  knew  we  that  his  sword         './<! 

Faltered  in  his  grasp;    rij  j 
Too  worn,  .he,  for  his  parting  word, 

Or  for  kindly  clasp. 

We,  with  faces  bent  above    .,; 

That  still  face  below— 
Sight  of  which  in  us  could  move 

Unknown  depths  of  woe: 


322  Later  Poems 

Felt  how  he  had  taken  all 

In  his  single  hand; 
Sealed  to  strife  beyond  recall 

For  his  kind  and  land ! 

Never  sending  backward  glance 

From  the  bitter  field, 
Never  murmuring  in  durance, 

With  no  mind  to  yield. 

Giving  all  that  in  him  was, 
Manhood's  ripest  strength; 

Fighting — failing  f  winning  thus  ! 
Lying  still  at  length. 

What  is  this  the  dead  mouth  saith 
To  each  broken  breast? 

Louder  than  with  force  of  breath : 
"Brothers,  it  is  best!" 

He,  from  heights  serene,  achieved, 
Pangless,  looking  down, 

From  the  day's  sore  stress  relieved, 
Clothed  in  fresh  renown; 

Sees,  in  solemn,  speechless  joy, 

How  Columbia's  tears 
Falling  for  her  sore  annoy 

O'er  his  blighted  years ; 

Out  of  his  untimely  grave 

Cause  a  tree  to  start; 
Hers  to  tend,  to  hold  and  have, 

Precious  to  her  heart ! 

In  its  leaves  shall  healing  ride 

For  her  growing  ills; 
'Neath  its  shade  she  shall  abide 

In  the  Peace  that  fills. 


The  Lesson  of  Our  Loss  323 

For,  as  it  shall  wax  in  growth, 

Shall  her  eyes  see  clear; 
To  forget  she  shall  be  loath 

How  'twas  planted  there. 

For  the  stubborn  ears  unclose 

When  Death's  silence  speaks ; 
Truths,  long  trifled  with,  God  knows, 

Bringing  tear-stained  cheeks. 

Santa  Cruz,  Cal.,  December  22,  1897. 


324  -•  Later   Poems 


NATURE. 

APRIL  SUNSHINE. 

You  know 

What  strange  sweet  thoughts,  and  memories,   and 

hopes, 
The   first   warm   days   of   the   young    Spring   bring 

with  them— 

How  olden  fancies,  crushed  and  prisoned  long, 
In  some  dark  corner  of  the  busy  heart, 
Spring  forth,  with  a  strange  wayward  power, 
To  life  and  light  and  April's  sun  again! 

And  how  we  long 

To  be  away  from  busy  life  and  care, 

And  pent-up  yearnings  haunt  the  sated  soul — 

A  passionate  longing  for  the  dim  old  woods, 

Where  emerald  mosses  and  blue  violets  grow ! 

We  would  be  out 

In  the  warm  sunshine,  where  the  meadow  grass 
Shows  its  young  green,  and  delicate  anemones 
Bare  their  pure  foreheads  to  the  April  wind! 

And  how  we  watch 

The  bursting  of  the  leaves  and  brighter  flowers, 

And  love  to  loiter  in  the  garden  walks, 

Planning  and  planting  in  the  fresh-turned  earth — 

Children  again!     Oh,  Spring  hath  witchery  in  it! 


In  Winter  325 


IN  WINTER. 

Look,  how  the  bald,  blur  line  of  distant  mountains, 

Shrinking  away  from  the  descending;  heaven, 
Dark,  dappled  like  to  crouching  leopards  even, 

In  whose  cold  breasts  lie  warmth-awaiting  foun 
tains, 
Seem  to  draw  nearer,  with  tentative  feet, 

Bedabbled  by  the  lake's  tempestuous  billows, 
Yearning  across  it  these  far  fields  to  meet, 

As  tired  heads  yearn  for  white  and  lonely  pillows. 

And  see  the  lakeward-sloping  fieldvS,  us  facing, 

That  have  the  skirting  wood  for  sentinel. 
They,  too,  shrink  from  those  skies,  so  joy  displac- 

ilio1 
A11to> 

That  scowl  alike  on  wood  and  field  and  fell: 
They  seem  forever  downward  gliding,  creeping 

Away  from  Evil  that  might  overtake; 
Though  wrapped  in  neutral  white,  they  wage  un 
sleeping 

A  common  fight  for  life,  like  hill  and  lake. 

AVhat  is  the  signal  from  the  beckoning  hills, 

Leaning  across  the  rough  breast  of  the  lake? 
What  is  the  fear  that  through  its  waters  thrills? 

What  panic  is't  keeps  the  earth  awake, 
As  it  goes  groping  blindly  toward  the  sun/ 

While  wrestling  with  the  cold  that  chills  its  veins, 
Fighting  the  death  in  those  low  skies'  so  clun, 

That   numbs   the   white   cheeks   of   its   shrinking 
plains? 

Heart,  whose  regards  are  set  straight   toward  the 
storm, 


326  Later  Poems 

Round  whom  the  cold  of  hopelessness  is  closing, 
That  passest  the  hamlet  windows  gleaming  warm, 

And  climbest  toward  the  heights  in  white  repos 
ing: 
Know  it  is  death  to  sleep  upon  the  way! 

Go  staggering  on,  as  toward  the  sun  the  earth. 
If  thy  last  breath  can  buy  that  upper  day, 

Thou  shalt  win  all  Life  holds,  of  long  worth ! 


IN  THE  SWEET  MAY  TIME. 

I  was  very  lorn  and  loveless; 

I  was  hopless,  nigh,  and  tried, 
In  my  weakness,  with  sore  burdens, 

And  no  health  at  my  side. 
And  the  heart  you  lay  beneath,  dear, 

No  more  could  croon  a  rhyme, 
While  I  waited  for  your  coming 

In  the  sweet  May  time. 

For  I  shivered  as  I  waited ; 

I  feared  to  see  your  face 
Tell  over  all  the  sorrows 

That  in  my  own  I  trace. 
What  if  my  grief  had  blighted 

The  brightness  of  your  glee? 
What  if  your  soulless  body 

Was  all  that  I  should  see? 

So,  for  me  there  was  no  gladness 

In  the  tender  green  of  spring, 
And  I  hid  my  face  in  sadness 

From  every  living  thing. 
Then,  like  a  smile  from  heaven, 

Came  with  the  May  flowers, 
Your  dimpled  baby  beauty, 

In  the  sweet  May  hours ! 


A  Study.  327 

All  the  blackness  of  my  sorrow 

Was  gone — forever  gone  ! 
You  were  the  fairest,  loviiigest, 

That  ere  the  sun  shone  on! 
And  all  my  hungry-heartedness 

Was  fed  unto  the  full; 
There  were  more  flowers  in  my  path 

Than  ever  I  could  pull. 

Yes,  darling,  all  the  sympathy 

I'd  missed  my  whole  life  long ; 
Yes,  darling,  all  the  tenderness 

I'd  grieved  for  in  my  song, 
Came  in  with  you  and  staid  with  you, 

And,  flowering  with  your  prime — 
God  gave  them  all  to  me  with  you 

In  the  sweet  May  time ! 


A  STUDY. 

A  low  red  farmhouse,  half  way  down  a  slope, 
Gay  with  pink  clover  set  in  riotous  grass, 

Here,  on  her  knees  a  half-twined  daisy  rope, 
A  shy  child  glances  up  to  see  you  pass. 

Beyond  the  nook  where  she  sits,  nested  low, 
A  meadow,  daisy-sprinkled,  stretches  far. 

Across  it  what  sweet  wind-waves  come  and  go ! 
Beyond  it  what  black  depths  of  woodland  are. 

Fringed,  on  this  nearest  side,  by  alder  boughs, 
Whose  sweet  white  blossoming  tosses  like  sea 

foam, 
Here  hath  my  Lady  Wren  her  dainty  house— 

Fairer  than  lace-hung  palace  her  small  home! 


328  Later   Poems 

The  place  is  full  of  secrets.     Hist!  the  voice 
Of  whispering  waters,  stealing',  green  and  cool, 

'Twixt  curtaining  trees.     There  is  no  other  noise, 
Save  a  faint  chirping  from  yonder  woodland  pool, 


"  'TIS  AN  ILL  WIND,"  ETC. 

0,  the  leaves  are  fluttering  down; 
Some  are  scarlet,  some  are  brown ; 
Some  are  yellow,  like  the  crown 

On  the  little  upheld  head 
Of  my  dainty  darling  girl 
Who  won't  brook  a  tangled  curl. 
Ah,  how  closely  she  doth  furl 

Those  silk  banners  well  bestead ! 
Fast  to  bind  is  fast  to  find; 
She  the  yellow  strands  doth  wind 
In  a  shining  crown  behind 

While  she  sighs  for  summer  dead ! 

Faster,  faster  fall  the  leaves 
Like  the  tears  of  one  who  grieves. 
Carried  are  the  summer's  sheaves. 

Ah,  the  wind's  a  robber  bold  ! 
When  he   stretches  his  strong  hands 
Out  into  the  hivering  lands. 
Absolute  are  his  demands 

And  he  gets  the  woodland  gold. 
Autumn  frightened  from  her  play 
Finds  him  swift  to  soil  and  slay. 
In  a  night  and  in  a  day 

He  hath  made  her  grey  and  old ! 

At  her  heart  he  striketh  straight. 
Ah,  how  bitter  is  his  hate ! 


Winds  in  November  329 

Not  a  little  will  he  wait, 

And  she  withers  in  his  clasp ! 
All  is  ready  for  the  snow. 
Now,  thou  Goth,  thou  vandal,  go ! 

From  her  dead  neck  take  your  grasp, 
All  the  saddest  things  are  yours — 
Blossoms  stricken  to  their  cores, 
Blighted  fields  and  leafless  shores, 

All  despondencies  that  rasp. 

Only  one  thing  have  you  done 
That  from  me  a  smile  has  won — 
I  can  see  it  in  the  sun, 

The  dear  house  that  holds  my  love! 
You  have  swept  away  the  screen 
Made  of  Summer's  leafage  green. 
Even  her  window  can  be  seen. 

I  could  see  her  drop  her  glove, 
Though  November's  wind  is  rude. 
'Tis  an  ill  wind  blows  no  good. 
I  the  truth  in  thankful  mood 

Of  the  quaint  old  adage  prove. 


WINDS  OF  NOVEMBER. 

Blow,  winds  of  late  November,  blow! 

Blow  every  loose  leaf  from  the  tree. 
Leave  not  a  hindrance,  high  or  low, 

Betwixt  the  utter  sky  and  me. 

But  blow  thy  best  and  let  me  see 

The  truth 'of  Nature  fully  grown, 
Bare  of  the  green  time's  fantasy 

When  luckless  lovers  walked  alone, 

And   only   made    a   tender   moan 

Where  'neath  its  leaves  the  -violet  hides 


Later   Poems 

Her  face  against  the  friendly  stone 
With  many  timid  things  besides. 

But  take  whatever  thing  divides 

Me  from  the  finiteness  of  truth, 
The  cleaning  spirit  that  confides, 

But  not  the  wishfulness  of  youth. 

Blow  from  me  every  petty  care, 

Even  as  thou  blowest  the  leaves  away, 
Bringing  a  loneliness  severe 

With  every  serious  sunny  day. 

Let's  see  if  skies  be  blue  or  grey; 

Let's  see  if  I  am  strong  to  dare 
To  have  my  summer  swept  away, 

Nor  perish  in  thy  crucial  air. 


A  VOLCANIC  ROSE  HEDGE. 

VOLCANO  HOUSE,  CRATER  OF  KILAUEA. 

[The  following-  poem  was  found  by  me  in  a  pocket  of  one  of 
my  mother's  scrap  albums.  It  was  in  the  rougli  and  was 
very  hard  for  me  to  decipher.  If  it  is  not  true  to  the 
rhythm,  I  beg-  the  reader  to  blame  it  on  myself  and  not  the 
writer.  The  poem  was  written  one  evening  late  after  we 
had  arrived  at  the  Volcano  House,  on  the  Island  of  Hawaii, 
in  1890.  We  had  ridden  a  long-  way  from  Hilo  on  horseback, 
or  rather  muleback.  The  guide  had  forgotten  water.  We 
had  been  delayed,  and  it  was  just  dusk  when  we  reached 
the  Volcano  House.  Just  before  our  journey's  end  we  sud 
denly  came  across  a  most  wonderful  hedge  of  red  and  white 
roses.  Their  beauty  and  fragrance  in  such  a  spot  fairly 
overwhelmed  us.  The  poem  brings  it  back  Very  vividly  to  me, 
although  I  was  a  small  child  at  the  time. — E.  S.  McG.] 

Behind  a  dead  volcano,  slowly  shrinking, 
The  sun  had  left  the  lava  wash  in  shade, 

And  roofed  with  ferns,  their  giant  fronds  linking, 
The  upward  way  was  like  a  world  new  made. 


A  Volcanic  Rose  Hedge  331 

Yet  all  was  strange :  no  leaf,  nor  fruit,  nor  flower, 
No  sight,  nor  sound  like  those  of  far-off  home. 

Dark,  sullen,  red  gleamed  Pele's  awful  bosom, 
A  far  weird  menace  frozen  with  fiery  foam. 

Across  the  once  red  vale  of  desolation, 

Dead  ruins  grey,  of  a  long  burnt-out  wrath, 

Over  the  relic's  fierce  annihilation, 

For  long  hot  hours  had  lain  our  ragged  path. 

The  hot  silence  as  of  a  world  in  embers, 

A  terrible  thirst,  and  never  a  drop  to  drink — 

The  pain  of  the  rack  in  all  of  our  punished  members, 
We,  drooping,  dreamed  of  some  cool  river's  brink. 

So  fared  we  past  the  fear  of  fruitless  wandering, 
Midst  darkening  wastes,  but  lately  over  past, 

Precious  the  light  as  gold  of  miser's  squandering,. 
We  knew  we  were  at  the  end  of  it  at  last! 

As  up  the  slope,  in  face  of  fiery  sun's  slow  sinking, 
Rode  we,  white   strangers   from  far   beyond  the 
foam, 

Tousled  and  tired  and  thirsty  and  all  unthinking, 
Till  in  our  faces  blew  a  breath  of  home ! 

The  smell  of  roses  that  run  and  clamber 
Out  of  the  dew  of  one  dear  cottage  porch 

To  look  at  the  sun  as  he  comes  from  his  eastern 

chamber 
Sleepily,  kindly,  his  slowly  reddening  torch; 

As  out  of  the  corner  we  rode  to  the  grey  clearing, 

Hundreds  of  roses  reach  up  to  smile  in  our  faces 

On  the  brink  of  the  Pit  of  the  Burning,  sweet,  glad 

and  unfearing, 

Like  a  smile  from  Heaven  attend  Hell's  terrible 
places ! 


332  Later   Poems 

0,  lender  and  sweet  and  kind  as  a  hand  of  healing, 

To  ccme  upon  them  lining'  the  long,  grassy  lane 

Like   a  mirage   of  home   to   the   eyes   of   the   exile 

dying, 

Sweet  roses  from  dear  homes  over  the  seas. 
Like  inland  echoes  to  far-off  music  replying, 

So  SAveet  to  my  heart,  dear  roses,  the  thought  of 
thee. 


THE  REVOLT  OF  THE  WATERS. 

0,  the  smoothly  shining  water !     0,  the  softly  sleep- 
.  ing  water ! 

Only  yesterday,  my  eyes 
Saw  the  flash  of  oars  upon  it, 

In  their  measured  fall  and  rise. 
Far   away  the   steamy  sparkle   rose   and   fell   upon 

the  river, 

And  I  watched  it  upward  quiver 
With   a  rapturous,  slight  shiver, 

Part  delight  and  part  surprise — 
With  a  half  smile,  slowly  lightening 

In  my  pleasured  eyes, 
As  a  child  might  watch  a  diamond 

Held  to  still  its  cries — 
Beautiful  I  named  the  river 
And  the  upward  flashing  quiver 

And  the  rhythmic  glittering  fall 
Of  the  far  oars  upon  its  water, 

And  I  leaned  as  to  a  call. 

0,    the    treacherous,    still    water!      0,    the    terrible, 

strong  water ! 

Deadlier  than  a  host  in  armor 
In  its  reddest  hour  of  slaughter! 
Wouldst  that  we  had  seen  the  sun 


A  Sound  of  the  Night  333 

Darken  ere  its  course  was  run, 

Or  the  night  been  full  of  thunder, 

Wakening1  us  everyone — 

Just  some  omen  darkly  telling 

Of  the  ruin  we  should  shun. 

But  the  fair,  deceitful  water,  but   the  treacherous 

still  water 

Crept  and  crept  and  grew  and  gathered 
Till  its  top  with  froth  was  lathered, 
Then,  with  its  sole  strength  for  lever, 
Made  unto  itself  a  door — 
And  leapt  through  with  hungry  roar. 

0,  the  terrible,  strong  water!     Traitorous   tool   of 
rack  and  slaughter, 

Once  the  patientest  of  slaves. 
Mastering  its  recent  masters, 

Now  its  fierce  uplifted  waves 
Work  us  nothing  but  disasters. 
Ah,  the  ruin  !     Ah,  the  wreck ! 
Growing  out  of  one  small  speck 
Of  unmended  weakness.     Oh! 
For  the  wailing  high  and  low, 
For  the  bursting  of  the  waters,  •   V  • 

And  the  hearts  and  homes  undone, 
And  the  pain  sown  twixt  the  rising 

And  the  setting  of  the  sun! 

Mill  River,   May  1C,   1874. 


A  SOUND  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Is  it  the  wind  complaining 
Down  in  the  leafless  dell, 

Where  it  sang  in  the  summer, 
Merrily,   "All  is  Well"? 


334  Later  Poems 

Is  it  the  wind  that  shivers 
Under  the  shivering  trees — 

The  wind  that  all  the  summer 
Was  only  a  careless  breeze? 

No,  the  wind  is  the  bearer 

Of  a  sorer  cry  than  its  own — 

There  never  came  out  of  Nature 
So  utterly  sad  a  tone. 

For  none  but  a  human  being, 
Face  downward  upon  the  sod, 

Despairing  of  human  succour, 
Could  cry  like  that  to  God ! 


TO  A  SOUTHWEST  WIND  IN  FEBRUARY. 

Where  are  the  violets?     Where  do  they  hide? 

Surely,   thou   bringest   me   news   of   them,   sweet 

wind ! 
Thou  comest  from  the  places  where  they  bide 

And  hast  not  left  all  traces  of  them  behind. 

Where  are  they?     Very  near  they  sure  must  be; 

I  seem  to  see  the  sweet  things  starting  up 
Around  the  mossed  roots  of  some  old  tree; 

A  drop  of  dew  in  each  cerulean  cup. 

Ah,    happy   breeze !      For    thou    hast    brought    the 
spring ; — 

I  will  go  with  thee,  wind,  to  seek  them  out. 
Was  that  the  shadow  of  a  fleeting  wing? 

With  what  strange  glamor  am  I  hedged  about? 

Alas,  sweet  vagrant !  hast  thou  left  me  here, 

The  credulous  plaything  of  thy  wandering  will? 


A  White  Rose  Bud  Half  Blown  335 

Bound  hand  and  foot  in  Winter's  icy  sphere, 
Made  by  the  cheat  more  miserable  still! 


SIMPATICA. 

Wild  flowers  are  dying  in  the  dusk  of  the  woods ; 

Tired  hearts  are  breaking  in  the  chambers  of  the 

city. 
Both  hide  well  their  pallor  and  their  moods 

From  the  cold  looks  that  might  soften  to  pity. 

Both  in  the   thought   of  Him  who   moulded  them 

both, 

They  are  more  worth  than  these  fortunate  others, 
Who,  with  upheld  heads,  stand  erect,  nothing  loth 
To   borrow  fair   fortune   from   the   fall   of   their 
brothers. 

Pale  flowers,  be  glad  ye  are  hidden  in  the  wood, 
Till  the  shadows  come  and  the  bright  sun  sets. 

Poor  hearts,  cover  yourselves  with  solitude ; 
Dearest  you,  of  all,  to  him  who  never  forgets ! 

Santa  Cruz,  Cal. 


A  WHITE  ROSE  BUD  HALF  BLOWN. 

[Dedicated  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  W.  Blake.] 

"And  0 !"  we  said,  "what  happiness  is  ours, 
Since  this  unfolding  bloom  is  all  our  own, 

Our  hearts  from  out  a  million  more  of  flowers 
Had  chosen  but  this,  alone. 

"If  God  had  left  the  choosing  unto  us !" — 
But,  all  unasked,  He  gave  it  to  our  hands ; 

So,  what  can  we  do  now,  afflicted  thus, 
But  bow  to  His  commands? 


336  Later   Poems 

He  must  have  known  who  gave  it  in  His  own  time, 
When  it  was  best  to  take  it  back  again. 

Was't  that  He  feared  for  it  the  frost's  cold  rime, 
Or  some  despoiling  stain? 

She  blooms  within  his  garden,  our  white  rose, 

That  never  was  to  open  fully  here ; 
To  us  she  shall  her  sweetest  charms  disclose, 

In  the  land  without  a  tear. 


FOUR  MAPLES. 

[There  were  four  maples  in  front  of  our  home  in  Sherwood, 
New  York.  I  think  my  Mother  planted  them.  They  are 
immense  trees  now. — E.  S.  McG.] 

Still  gloriously  clothed  in  summer's  green, 

My  maples  stately  stand, 
A  living  arch,  with  sunlight  glints  between, 

They  dominate  the  land. 

And  yet,  since  yesterday,  what  change  has  come 

Upon  their  leafy  grace — 
Mysterious,  inscrutable  and  numb, 

As  on  a  living  face: 

As  when  from  out  the  opened  door  we  pass 

From  wrestling  with  loss, 
Yet  on  our  foreheads  bear  so  plain,  alas! 

The  impress  of  our  cross. 

Last  night  their  great  destroyer  passing  breathed 

On  these  a  warning,  breat.i ; 
With  martyr's  chaplets  they  will  soon  be  wreathed, 

The  harbingers  of  death ! 

And  yet  how  slight,  the  fatal  sigh,  I  think, 
That  presages  so  much ! 


Apple  Blossoms  in  December  337 

Only  their  leaves,  a  little  curling,  shrink 
As  from  a  shriveling  touch. 

Only  the  withering  cheek,  the  dropping  lips 

Tell  less  of  inward  wound; 
Not  suddenly  comes  summer's  full  eclipse 

When  dead  leaves  strew  the  ground. 

And  yet  my  maples  shall  forget  their  blight, 

And  bud  anew  next  spring — 

Canst   thou   not   break   thy   way   through   sorrow's 
night 

And  hear  the  bluebirds  sing? 

0  heart !    that  art  a  target  set  for  all 

The  darts  of  evil  fate ! 
Remember  how  she  overcomes  the  small, 

And  cringes  to  the  great. 

Regard  my  maples,  doomed,  as  to  the  knife, 

But  mind  thee,  still  I  pray, 
How  they  shall  pass  through  icy  death  to  life ; 

And  why  not  thou,  as  they? 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS  IN  DECEMBER. 

Shy  maiden — modest,  pink  and  white 
Young  blossoms,  veiled  in  vestal  dew ! 

As  pure  as  youth's  first  dream  delights, 
True  daughter  of  a  sire  that  grew. 

'Neath  peaceful  and  magnificent  skies, 
With  no  betrayal  in  their  blue; 

Watched  by  the  sun-god's  steadfast  eyes, 
Till  all  perfected  through  and  through. 


338  Later   Poems 

And  so  in  this  December  hour 

That  elsewhere  falls  on  troublous  time, 

In  this  Hesperian  orchard  bower, 
Fit  witness  of  an  ideal  clime. 

Vague  hints  of  buried  love  and  spring 

Thrill  through  the  budding  boughs  around; 

For  lo !  the  blue  flash  of  a  wing ! 

And  list,  what  May  time  notes  abound! 

'Mid  rustling  leaves  and  bluebirds'  call, 
And  scented  snow  on  plum  tree  boughs, 

Dream-fauns  and  Dryads  faint  footfalls, 
That  mingle  in  moonlit  carouse ; 

So  ghostly  light,  they  leave  no  traces 
Upon  the  vine-leaf  carpet  red — 

Only  the  stars  behold  their  faces, 

And  know  them  for  fair  fables  dead! 

And  so,  by  simulant  sights  and  sounds 
The  grand  trees'  royal  sap  is  stirred; 

With  earthly  Paradise  around, 

With  love  and  leaf  and  bloom  and  bird. 

A  faint  wind  brings  that  breath  divine, 

Intoxicant  of  early  spring — 
0  Maytime  hopes !     Lost  youth  of  mine ! 

That  Age  should  chance  on  such  a  thing. 

With  mid-life's  troubled  dream  behind, 
At  last  to  meet  with  such  a  hap ; 

Close  sheltered  from  each  chilling  wind, 
(Spring  is  smiling  thus,  in  winter's  lap). 

Ah!  tears  wrung  out  of  hopeless  eyes 

That  plead  and  watched  and  wept  in  vain; 

Mar  not  beneath  these  gracious  skies, 
With  any  savor  of  your  pain. 


The  Wine  Cup  of  the  Hills  339 

This  fragrant  omen  of  release, 

God-granted,  from  too  hard  a  fate; 

The  apple  blossoms'  breath  of  peace, 
The  glamor  of  the  Golden  Gate ! 


THE  WINE  CUP  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  rim  of  the  hill  is  close  laid 

To  the  breast  of  the  sky — 
What  Titianess,  proud,  unafraid, 

Lifts  this  chalice  on  high? 

Holds  it  up  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun, 

The  caress  of  the  wind, 
With  its  richness  of  grapes  well  begun, 

'Neath  the  slow  blushing  rind? 

O  never  a  wine  cup  like  this 

Saw  satyr  or  god! 
0  never  such  largeness  of  bliss 

Met  award  from  Jove's  nod ! 

And  0  to  be  here  and  alone 

With  the  vines  and  the  sky — 
With  the  wine  stirring  warm  'neath  the  zone 

Where  the  nectar  doth  lie! 

See  the  slopes!  and  the  slopes!  and  the  slopes! 

North,  South,  East  and  West! 
See  the  vines  climbing  up  like  the  hopes 

That  no  song  hath  expresst ! 

See  the  vines  clamber  high  on  the  hills, 

Turning  gold  as  they  go ! 
And,  beneath  them,  with  prescient  thrills, 

But  all  royally  slow; 


340  Later   Poems 

The  matchless,  divine  clusters  grand 

Of  the  ripening  grapes, 
Making  glorious  all  the  hill  land 

With  their  ravishing  shapes ! 

The  breath  of  the  hills  and  the  sky 
And  the  smell  of  the  vine, 

And  the  freshness  of  life  that  is  nigh 
In  the  sun's  ripening  shrine : 

Is  anything  better  than  these 

On  all  the  round  earth? 
Here  nothing  is  drear,  or  amiss, 

And  all  is  so  worth ! 


Admission  Day  341 


OF  EL  DORADO. 

ADMISSION  DAY. 

[California,   September   9,    1850.] 

Native  Sons  of  the  Golden  West ! 

Daughters  dear,  of  the  loveliest  land 
That  ever  the  sunlight  hath  caressed, 

Fresh  and  fair  from  the  Maker's  hand! 
The  day  that  today  ye  celebrate 

Is  the  day  of  days  in  YOUR  calendar; 
So  young  are  the  years  of  your  golden  State 

That  her  children's  spirits  are  still  astir. 

Their  hearts  still  thrilled  and  their  blood  aflame 
With  the  thought  of  all  that  the  news  implied, 

Upon  that  day  when  the  tidings  came 

And    their    loved    land    stood    up,    flushed    with 
pride, 

In  the  ranks  of  her  sister  States,  a  State ; 
Brave  blood,  strong  heart,  and  a  will  to  do ! 

They  kept  her  not  at  the  entrance  gate, 

For  she  brought  as  her  dower  a  thing  or  two 

That  her  elegant  sisters  could  not  despise 

(THEIR   descents   were   long,   but   HER   clothes 
were  new)  ; 

She  was  splendid  and  rare,  if  not  old  and  wise — 
She,  of  whom  you're  proud— the  Mother  of  you! 

They  pictured  her  in  the  days  of  old 

As  a  couchant  panthress — an  untamed  thing, 


342  Later  Poems 

As  a  savage  princess  decked  with  gold, 
With  barbaric  glitter  of  chain  and  ring. 

Deep  in  her  eyes  were  the  dreams  of  Spain, 
And  her  savage  blood  had  a  tinge  of  blue; 

Oft  was  she  sought  and  wooed  in  vain — 

She,  of  whom  you're  proud — the  Mother  of  you! 

Of  her  early  days,  what  memories  throng, 

When  they  would  have  made  her  a  dusky  nun ! 
But  the  floating  fragments  of  foreign  song 

Were  lost  in  silence  ere  well  begun. 
And  all  of  the  time  she  hid  in  her  heart 

Its  golden  secret  for  you  destined; 
You,  the  fruits  of  her  Statehood,  were  set  apart, 

To  have  what  the  others  could  not  find! 

Ye  may  well  be  proud  of  her — call  her  fair — 

Love  her  sun-kiss'd  cheeks  and  her  lovesome  lips ; 
Play  with  her  splendid  lengths  of  hair — 

Kiss  her  eyes,  whose  glory  all  gems  eclipse ! 
To  each  native  daughter  and  native  son, 

Scions  of  such  a  wonderful  tree, 
I  say  that  since  ever  the  world  begun 

No  land  has  been  worthy  of  love,  as  she. 

"As  true  as  gold"  and  "as  good  as  gold," 

Was  a  saying,  when  she  was  hid  from  sight; — 
So  they  said  in  the  days  of  old, 

When  she  came  to  them  in  the  dreams  of  night; 
And  as  good  she  is,  as  her  own  pure  gold ; 

And  as  fair  and  precious,  and  firm  and  true, 
With  the  most  of  her  story  yet  untold — 

This  is  she  that  you  love — the  Mother  of  you! 

She  will  bring  you  love,  she  will  bring  you  wealth, 
She  will  bring  you  gladness  and  length  of  days, 

And,  better  than  gold,  she  will  bring  you  health, 
She  whom  her  children  are  proud  to  praise ! 

Oh,  right  you  are  to  call  her  the  gem 
In  the  bright  confederacy  of  States! 


The  Unveiling  of  the  Fountain  343 

But  see  that  you  shine  in  her  diadem, 

For  the  will  of  the  world  upon  you  waits; 

And  the  eye  of  the  world  is  on  you,  sharp, 

And  the  thought  of  the  world,  it  questioneth  you ; 

And  since  you  are  born  to  a  golden  harp, 
See  that  the  music  you  make  is  true ! 


THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

[Presented  to  San  Francisco  by  Mayor  James  D.  Phelan,  and 
dedicated  to  the  Native  Sons  of  the  Golden  West,  September, 
1897.  It  was  through  the  great  fire  and  earthquake  of  1906.] 

This  delicate  shaft,  so  slender,  yet  so  strong, 

How  proudly  it  upbears 
Its  splendid  burden,  perfect  as  a  song, 

The  which,  it  crownlike  wears ! 

Meet  art  thou,  0  fair  figure,  to  uphold, 

With  arms  untired  and  young, 
Th'  unwritten  book,  like  to  a  cup  unfilled, 

Like  to  a  song  unsung ! 

But  that  fine  future  toward  which  thy  face 

With  such  glad  pride  is  turned, 
Shall  grasp  and  hold  thee  in  a  long  embrace 

Till  all  its  fame  is  earned. 

That  chronicle,  as  yet  unwrit,  is  all 

That  older  lands  have  won; 
And  'twill  be  grandly  more,  whate'er  befall 

Beneath  the  onlooking  sun; 

For  it  shall  be  the  pride  of  him  who  stands 

All  rugged,  at  thy  feet, 
To  bear  aloft  the  flag  within  his  hands, 

Each  nook  of  earth  to  greet! 


344 


And  steadily  the  nations  all  shall  stream 
Through  thy  wide  'Golden  Gate; 

Oh,  California!  fair  as  any  dream! 
On  thee  the  world  shall  wait. 

Ah.  Fountain  !     Let  thy  virginal  waters  gush 

Frerly,  to  flow  unstained; 
Ard  nev^r  may  thy  voice's  music  hush 

Till  all  our  glory's  gained. 

Thv  Maker  and  Inspirer,  worthy  each 
Th^  soil  from  which  they  sprung  ; 

For  Brother-love  and  love  of  Art  they  teach 
Of  these  my  muse  h^s  sung. 

San  Francisco,   September  9,   1897. 


DECEMBER  IN  CALIFORNIA. 

I  walked  today  in  my  garden 

That  never  fears  the  frost, 
Wh^re  I  riever.  like  Bryant,  the  poet, 

Mourn  for  the  blossoms  lost  ;* 
And  I  thought  of  the  bleak,  bare  meadows 

And  the  leafless  woods  of  the  North, 
Where  the  heralds  of  the  Storm  King 

Are  girding  and  riding  forth. 

I  walked  where  the  calla  lily, 

Nymph-like,  is  holding  up, 
Out  of  her  exquisite  bower, 

Her  faultless,   creamy  cup; 
Where  the  heliotrope,  so  fragrant, 

Opens  its  purple  eyes, 
Modest,  but  frank  and  generous, 

Forgetting  to  court  disguise. 

*"The  Death  of  the  Flowers." 


December  in  California  345 

Where  a  thousand  roses  are  smiling 

Full  in  the  face  of  the  sun, 
As  perfect  as  if  their  blooming 

Had  only  today  begun; 
And  mignonette  runs  riot 

In  the  kindly  soil  at  their  feet, 
While  the  crowds  of  dainty  marguerites., 

Whisper,  how  life  is  sweet ! 

Where  the  tall  and  sturdy  geranium 

Flames  -in  the  roadside  hedge, 
And  hangs  its  scarlet ;  blossoms 

All  over  many  a  ledge ;  - 
Near  the  lemon  verbena  spicy, 

That's  like  California  girls, 
WTho  bare  their  cheeks  to  the  sea  breeze, 

And  let  it  ruffle  their  curls. 

And  I  paused  where  that  fragrant  hostage 

Of  a  royal  golden  dower — 
Beloved  of  brides  expectant  — 

The  tropical  orange  flower, 
Revealed  by  its  breath,  delicious 

As  a  maiden's  dream  of  love, 
Hung,  betrayed  in  its  ambush, 

As  by  its  murmur,  the  dove ; 

By  the  palm  tree,  straight  and  stately, 

As  some  dusky,  Orient  maid; 
AVhere  the  humming  bird  was  fluttering, 

Radiant  and  unafraid; 
Well  I  knew  he  was  seeking 

For  the  jasmine's  honeyed  lips, 
Though  he  lingered  where  the  nectar 

Of  the  white  crape  myrtle  drips. 

They're  all,  all  here,  the  flowers, 

Brought  from  many  a  land ; 
And  the  treasured  exotics,  fearless, 


346  Later   Poems 

With  the  woodland  blossoms  stand ; 
And  they  called  their  far-off  sisters 

With  one  musical  refrain : 
"You  are  hiding  from  the  winter, 

We're  laughing  in  the  rain ! 

"Come  where  there's  naught  to  make  us 

Shrivel  or  turn  afraid; 
Where  the  wind  lilts,  like  a  lover, 

Through  every  ferny  glade ; 
Where  a  hundred  thousand  wellsprings 

Nourish  our  grateful  roots; 
Where  a  million  fostering  sunbeams 

Warm  our  growing  shoots. 

"Come  to  the  flowers'  kindest 

Refuge  on  all  the  earth, 
Where  the  shy  and  timid  violet 

All  the  year  looks  forth. 
For  we  nod  upon  the  hilltop, 

We  smile  upon  the  plain, 
And  while  you  hide  from  winter, 

We're  laughing  in  the  rain." 

1897. 


MAY  IN  CALIFORNIA. 

0  Nature,  let  me  lay  my  heart, 

Dear  mother,  close  beside  thine  own! 

For  what  true  child  of  thine  can  say, 
"I  am  left  all  alone !" 

So  long  as  thou  dost  keep  for  him 
Such  peaceful  Paradise  on  earth 

As  this,  where  every  lovely  thing 
Is  fostered  into  birth, 


California  Gold  347 

And  springs  into  such  perfect  life 

As  that  worn  world,  so  gray  and  dim, 

That  lies  so  far  away  from  here, 
Beyond  the  horizon's  rim, 

Knows  not  and  cannot  realize, 

And  sneers  to  hear  of. — Pitiful 
The  plight  of  one  whom  suffering  makes 

Incredulous  and  dull. 

That  Eden  should  come  true  again, 

Serene  as  on  its  natal  day, 
Smiling  beneath  the  kindest  skies 

Upon  the  lap  of  May; 

Who  would  believe  it — seeing  not — 

That  we  recover  that  lost  land? 
Who  would  believe  us  without  proof, 

Or  trust  the  beckoning  hand? 

But  Nature  keeps  her  precious  things 
For  her  true  children ;  gently  here 

She  calls  them  to  her  faithful  breast 
And  kindly  draws  them  near. 


CALIFORNIA  GOLD. 

THE  ESCHSCHOLTZIA. 

Never  the  grasp  of  greed,  the  brutal  touch 

Of  hands  sin-grimed  and  sold 
To  avarice  and  lusting  over  much, 

Have  soiled  thy  virgin  gold. 

Nor  thee  profaned,  rare  treasure-trove,  that  gleams 

In  El  Dorado's  earth ! 
Never  thy  shining  dulled  or  cankered  seems, 

Nor  cheapened  is  thy  worth. 


348  Later   Poems 

And  with  thy  unstained  wealth  we  cannot  buy 

Thing's  garish,  things  that  flaunt; 
Thou  pleasurest  not  the  coarsened,  untaught  eye; 

Thyself  them  dost  not  vaunt, 

And -yet,  when  night  thy  yellow  flag  hath  furled, 

Often  1  bend,  by  stealth, 
To  bless  thee  for  thy  day's  work  in  the  world, 

Thy  glad,  untrodden  health. 

For  I  have  marked  thee  when  thou  openest 
Upon  the  sun  thine  eyes, 

Baring  to  him  the  riches  of  thy  breast- 
Scornful  of  all  disguise. 

Are  thy  bright  leaves  a  promise,  golden  flower, 

Of  higher,  rarer  things- 
Than  all  the  favors  that  the  present  hour 

To  El  Dorado  brings? 


A  CALIFORNIA  ROSE  FAIR. 

A  feast  of  roses  in  the  'land  of  gold ! 

Well  might  their  sisters  in  Cashmere's  fair  vale. 
That  Tom  Moore  raved  about,  with  poignant  envy 

Droop  and  turn  pale. 

For  here  these  queens  of  flowers,  each  one  lovelier 
Than  the  preceding,  maze  us  with  their  splendor, 

Until  we  falter  in  a  seacof  beauty, 
Half  drowned  in  reveries  tender. 

Attar  of  roses!     6  diviriest /perfume  !_. 

The  costliest  incense  of  the  Persian  clime ! 
But  we  can  smile  at  fables  Oriental— 

We  have  it  all  the  time ! 


Del  Monte,  March,  '87  ;j49 

For  here,  the  rarest  roses,  elsewhere  fostered 
With  jealous  care,  and  guarded  night  and  day, 

Are  flung  into  our  laps  in  careless  luxury, 
And  grow  their  own  sweet  way. 

Fearless  of  chilling  frosts  or  storms  Atlantic, 

Ah,  well  might  some  new  Lalla  Rookh  exclaim  : 
This  is  a  rose  elysium,  angel-guarded, 

Thrice  worthy  of  thy  name ! 
i 

Our  land's  best  gold  not  in  the  earth  is  hidden, 
Its  radiance  shines  upon  the  upturned  faces, 

Even  of  its  flowers,  born  of  the  divine, 
Life-giving  Sun's  embraces. 

Therefore,  we  hold  our  rose  feast  of  thanksgiving 
For  the  flower-treasure  of  our  golden  year 

In  this  gold  land,  clasped  by  God's  love  and 

nature's, 
Where  life  need  know  no  fear! 

May,   1887. 


DEL  MONTE,  MARCH,  '87. 

Oh!  siren-sweet  Del  Monte  smiled, 
Sitting  beside  the  summer  sea, 

Bland  old  Pacific's  charming  child, 
Brightening"  the  breast  of  Monterey. 

How  sped  the  lovely,  luresome  days ! 

How  melted  into  morn  glad  nights  !,.. 
'Midst  her  embowered,  enchanted  ways, 

Nestled  amid  serene  delights. 


But  what?    But  what?    An  ominous  glow 
Deepened  and  brightened  o'er  the 'bay 


350  Later  Poems 

And  shone  across  its  placid  flow. 

Startled,  we  cried :    "  'Tis  Del  Monte  !" 

Ah !  who  could  harm  so  rare  a  thing — 

And  on  a  night  so  silver-fair? 
Only  the  trees  did  shadows  fling — 

Only  did  sigh  the  love-soft  air. 

And  many  a  heart  in  many  a  clime 
Shall  start  with  pain  and  sadly  say: 

"Burned?    There  I  spent  my  happiest  time; 
Alas,  for  lovely  Del  Monte !" 

THE  NEW  DELMONTE,  DECEMBER,  '87. 

Out  of  her  ashes  she  rises, 

Created  anew, 
And  steps  to  the  seat  that  she  slipped  from, 

By  the  bay  waters,  blue. 

And  seeing  her  sit  there  serenely, 

As  fair  as  of  eld, 
The  tale  of  her  loss  seems  a  rumor 

Right  swiftly  dispelled. 

Was  it  true?    Did  she  perish?    Ah,  never! 

It  was  but  the  mist 
That  came  'twixt  our  eyes  and  her  splendor- 

That  was  all — I  insist! 


A  SUMMER  SONG  OF  THE  SEA. 

Betwixt  blue  and  blue! 

Face  to  face  with  the  sky, 
Or  heart  to  heart  with  the  ocean, 

Lazily  let  me  lie. 
Arms  of  the  great  Sea-Mother, 

Restfulest  ye  of  all, 


The  Hills  of  Santa  Cruz  351 

Even  when  you  lure  us  downward 
Beyond  recall. 

Betwixt  blue  and  blue ! 

Fair  is  the  sight  of  the  sky, 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  ocean, 

Lightly  the  winds  go  by ! 
'Tis  the  dear  sea's  heart  that  calms  us 

With  its  rhythmic  rise  and  fall, 
And  to  feel  it  throbbing  beneath  us 

Is  best  of  all. 

Betwixt  blue  and  blue ! 

Alone  with  the  sea  and  the  sky; 
Oh,  to  lie  here  forever, 

Not  questioning  why! 
With  a  kind  sky's  face  above  me, 

And  the  kind  sea's  heart  below, 
Soothed  by  the  wind's  light  touches 

That  come  and  go. 

Bay   of  Monterey,   Summer,   1897. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SANTA  CRUZ.* 

*Oak  Knoll,  Danvers,  Mass., 

December  6,  1887. 
Dear  Friend  Howard  Glyndon: 

"The  Hills  of  Santa  Cruz"  is  a  lyric  which  would  do  honor  to 
any  magazine.  Fine  in  conception  and  felicitous  in  expression, 
it  will  cling  to  the  Santa  Cruz  mountain  range  forever.  It  will 
do  for  the  little  city  by  the  sea  what  Bret  Harte  has  done  for 
San  Francisco  and  Mrs.  Mace  has  done  for  Los  Angeles.  It  will 
give  new  interest  to  the  surrounding  scenery,  and  really  add  to 
its  value  in  the  eyes  of  the  tourist  and  speculator. 
Very  truly  thy  friend, 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

I've  seen  the  far-off  Apennines 

Melt  into  dreamy  skies; 
I've  seen  the  peaks  the  Switzers  love 

In  snowy  grandeur  rise; 
And  many  more,  to  which  the  world 

Its  praise  cannot  refuse — 


352  Later   Poems 

But  of  them  all,  I  love  the  best 
The  hills  of  Santa  Cruz. 

Oh,  how  serenely  glad  they  stand, 

Beneath  the  morning-  sun ' 
Oh,  how  divinely  fair  they  are 

When  morn  to  noon  hath  run! 
How  virginal  their  fastnesses, 

Where  no   Bacchante   wnos       .  • 
The  kisses  of  the  grapes  that  grow 

On  the  hills  of  Santa  Cruz,! 

And  then,  how  beautiful  they  lo::k 

Just  when  the  sun  departs, 
With  benediction  on  their  brows 

And  homesteads  on  their  hearts! 
0  hills  of  Promise,  Peace,  and  Joy! 

No  heart  could  well  refuse 
To  own  the  charm  of  your  delights, 

Dear  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 

When  the  reluctant  sun  hath  gone 
And  left  ye  lone  and  sweet, 

What  rapture  then  to  trace  the  line 
^  Where  earth  and  heaven  meet. 

So  low  ye  lie  beneath  the  sky 
We  ne'er  can  you  accuse 

Of  harshness  or  repellant  pride, 
Kind  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 

Ah!  no;  ye  are  forever  dear 

And  restful  to  the  eyes, 
Tho'  ever  changeful,  yet  each  change 

Is  but  a  glad  surprise. 
'Twixt  gentle  skies  and  gentle  seas, 

Your  outlines  never  lose 
The  tenderness  that  Eden  knew, 

Calm  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 


The  Homes  of  Santa  Cruz  353 

You  stand  before  us  like  to  those 

Meek  angels  sent  of  God, 
Who  chanted  blessings  on  the  earth's 

Imbrued  and  guilty  sod ; 
So  ye,  sweet  ministers  of  hope, 

In  mind  and  heart  infuse 
Peace  and  good  will  on  earth,  0  dear, 

Dear  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 

And  if  I  be  the  first  to  lay 

The  laurels  at  your  feet, 
Why,  then,  my  heart  can  only  say 

The  task  is  passing  sweet,— 
For  sure  I  am  and  sure  we  are 

Wo  ne'er  your  outlines  lose, 
There  are  no  hills  to  match  our  own ' 

Glad  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 


THE  HOMES  OF  SANTA  CRUZ. 

What  time  the  east  is  reddened  by 

The  flushing  of  the  dawn, 
Before  the  arrows  of  the  Sun 

Are  from  his  quiver  drawn ; 

While  the  young  Day,  strong,  rising  up, 
'Shakes  from  its  locks  the  dews,— 

I  watch  the  smoke  like  incense  rise 
From  the  homes  of  Santa  Cruz ! 

From  where  they've  climbed  to  nestle  on 
The  mountain's  swelling  crest 

To  where  they  peep  from  out  the  vale 
As  from  a  sheltered  nest. 

I  deem  they  are  a  favored  race 
Who  rear  their  Lares  her?;-1 


354  Later   Poems 

Better  than  gold  or  gain  by  far 
These  skies  so  kind  and  clear; 

Sweeter  the  sight  and  smell  of  flowers 
That  round  these  casements  blow 

Than  all  the  wealth  the  warring  world 
Holds  in  its  troubled  flow. 

For  nowhere  rests  the  roving  eye, 
Commissioned  far  or  near, 

On  vine-clad  slope  or  flashing  sea, 
But  that  God's  smile  is  there. 

Or  broken  heart,  or  broken  health, 
Have  drawn  us  from  afar, 

But  as  we  cluster  here  like  beea. 
Each  well  may  bless  his  star. 


Saw  they,  those  brave  Spanish  friars, 

Thy  hidden  glories  gleam? 
0  Mission  of  the  Holy  Cross! 

Saw  they,  as  in  a  dream, 

Thy  rounded  hillslopes,  white  with  homes, 

That  rise  before  me  now, 
What  time  they  stood  upon  thy  beach, 

Or  scaled  Ben  Lomond's  brow? 

They  builded  better  than  they  knew — 

Ah,  not  for  somber  Spain! 
The  clue  was  in  the  hands  of  God, 

And  He  hath  made  it  plain. 

They  builded  better  than  they  knew 

In  planting  here  the  Cross ; 
Today  their  triumph  blossoms  out 

With  no  alloy  of  loss. 


California  Diamonds  355 

Fruit  of  the  Cross's  tree !    Thy  roots 

Were  nourished  in  their  blood; 
Thy  germ  was  quickened  by  the  prayers 

Of  that  lone  brotherhood. 

The  seed  came  to  the  waiting  soil 

From  far  across  the  seas, 
And  found  it  like  those  fabled  isles, 

The  gold  Hesperides! 

0  happy  homes,  on  happy  hills, 
Beneath  such  happy  skies, 

1  bless  ye  in  the  pride  of  noon 
And  when  the  shadow  lies 

Upon  ye,  dwellers  in  the  dells, 

Amid  your  leafy  haunts 
I  gaze,  and  think  the  heart  of  man 

Hath  here  no  further  wants. 

0  City  of  the  Holy  Cross ! 

0  city  by  the  sea! 
A  blessed  balm  from  many  a  loss 

Is  the  sweet  sight  of  thee ! 

Proudly  upon  thee  sits  the  grace 

Of  thy  immortal  name, 
Fair  flower  of  the  Pacific  Slope, 

Flushed  with  the  sunset's  flame ! 


CALIFORNIA  DIAMONDS. 

Who  has  tossed  this  handful  of  diamonds 

Into  the  grass  of  June — 
Into  this  dew-wet  grass  through  which 

The  wind  goes  singing  a  rune? 


356;  Later   Poems 

Whose  the  hand  so  lavish  and  careless, 

Opened  so  wide  to  throw 
Into  the  flowering  grass  this  peerless 

Treasure  that  glads  me  so-? 

Oh,  a  handful  of  clear-cut,  shining, 

Virginal,  priceless  gems ! 
Some  of  them  nestling,  sparkling,  gleaming, 

Close  to  the  green  grass  stems. 

But  what  setting  were  fairer,  fitter, 
Than  this  dew- wet  grass  of  June? 

How  midst  its  green  they  quiver  and  glitter 
Under  the  sun  of  noon ! 

Here  is  one  like  an  eye  of  fire, 

And  one  out-glitters  the  rest, 
Until  I  bend  me  to  lift  and  clasp  it 

Close  to  my  envious  breast, 

O  my  gems !    they  glimmer  and  shimmer, 
And  fade  like  a  passing  breath— 

Dewdrops  caught  in  a  spider's  web, 
And  my  human  touch  is  death. 


CAPITOLA. 

Like  some  fair  sea-nymph  flung  ashore, 

Capitola ! 

To  haunt  the  briny  deep  no  more, 

Capitola ! 

Like  some  bright,  bonny  Lorelei  lass, 

Thou  makest  the  bay  thy  looking-glass, 

And  beckonest  to  all  that  pass, 

Capitola ! 


Capitola  357 

Thou'rt  like  thy  name-sake,  pretty  place, 

Capitola ! 
Thou  hast  her  arch,  enchanting  grace, 

Capitola ! 

Sly  siren  of  the  laughing  eye, 
Spoiled  darling  of  the  sea  and  sky, 
Once  glimpsed,  we  cannot  pass  thee  by, 

Capitola ! 
Thou  sittest  at  the  water's  edge, 

Capitola ! 

Beneath  a  friendly,  sheltering  ledge, 

Capitola ! 

Letting  the  tide  play  with  thy  feet, 
Turning  thy  laughing  face  to  greet 
Each  comer  with  a  welcome  sweet,1 

Capitola ! 

In  thee,  our  days  glide  on  like  dreams, 

Capitola ! 

Like  flowers  flung  on  loitering  streams, 

Capitola! 

With  laugh  and  music,  jest  and  dance, 

Surcease  from  care  and  restful  trance, 

And  all  the  glamour  of  romance, 

.  Capitola ! 

And  then  we  go ;  but  from  afar, 

Capitola ! 
Thy  memory  haunts  us,  like  a  star, 

Capitola! 

We  leave  the  toil,  the  stress,  the  strain, 
In  thy  kind  arms  rest  again, 
And  listen  to  the  surf's  refrain, 

Capitola ! 

Hotel  Capitola,  March  23,  .18JH5. 


358  Later  Poems 


MEMORIAL  DAY   IN  CALIFORNIA; 
THE  G.  A.  R. 

0  day  of  memories  dear,  yet  sad, 

Proud  tho'  regretful,  glad  yet  tender ; 

The  drift  and  wreckage  of  the  mad 
And  fiery  years  of  war-time  splendor. 

Tho'  here  there  be  no  sight  nor  sound 
Of  strife  or  carnage  to  remind  us 

How  the  red  blooms  of  battle  wound 
About  the  stormier  times  behind  us. 

No !   Not  in  the  wildwood  wealth 
Of  flowers  of  nature,  open  handed, 

And  laughing  on  in  golden  health, 
Heaps  on  us,  veterans  disbanded, 

Is  there  a  single  one  to  wake 

Old  thrills,  old  pains,  old  camp-fire  stories; 
Not  one  the  sight  of  which  can  take 

Our  thoughts  back  to  the  awful  glories 

Of  flowerful  fields  that  patriot  blood 
So  cheerfully  and  richly  watered — 

Flowers  that  smiled  up  to  where  we  stood, 
For  right  and  country  to  be  slaughtered. 

We  cannot  say:    "Like  this  and  this 
Grows  on  the  graves  at  Arlington;" 

Nor  with  a  proud  and  passionate  kiss, 
"Like  this,  behold  a  battle  won." 


Memorial  Day  in  California  359 

No ;  on  the  old  fields  where  we  fought 
We  left  the  flowers  and  many  a  token; 

Nothing  to  this  new  land  was  brought 
But  memories  tenderest  when  unspoken. 

And  for  the  sake  of  these  we  stand — 
A  little,  worn-out  band,  fast  thinning — 

Today  with  heart  to  heart,  and  hand 
In  hand,  as  once  at  the  beginning. 

Stronger  than  links  of  steel  the  thought 

Of  comrades  who  no  longer  listen 
Nor  answer  to  the  roll  call;  fraught 

With  tenderness  that  makes  to  glisten 

The  tears  in  eyes  that  never  fell, 

When  death  stared  in  them  during  battle; 

That  never  faltered  when  the  shell 

Burst  near  them  with  its  direful  rattle. 

O  peaceful  years,  that  grew  between! 

O  happy  graves,  'neath  skies  so  tender! 
And  overgrowing  what  has  been, 

The  present  with  its  glad  surrender. 

Yet,  sad  for  us  when  overhead 

This  day  dawns,  taking  us  still  further 

From  the  old  times,  so  dear  though  dread, 
And  one  is  missing  and  another. 

For  we,  whose  living  hands  bestrew 

Our  comrades'  graves  in  mood  memorial 

Not  long  may  linger  so  to  do, 

And  none  may  wear  our  robes  seignorial. 

When  none  are  left  our  tale  to  tell, 

Not  one  to  answer  to  the  roll, 
When  all  are  mustered  out  and  well 

We   slumber,   one  victorious   whole, 


360  Later   Poems 

Memorial  mornings,  fresh  with  dew, 
Shall  see  our     children  glad,  unscarred 

By  the  fierce  fires  that  we  went  through, 

Strew  flowers  where  "glory  mounts  on  guard." 


JUNE. 

A  song,  a  song  for  the  leafy  June, 

With  its  pleasant  morn  and  its  sultry  noon; 

A  song  for  the  month  of  birds  and  flowers, 

For  the  month  of  glorious  sunset  hours; 

The  rude  spring  winds  have  gone  to  sleep, 

And  the  hues  of  the  forest's  leaves  grow  deep, 

And  the  shy  young  rose  is  blushing  out, 

And  the  lazy  zephyrs  go  sighing  about, 

Making  love  to  the  innocent  flowers, 

Fresh  from  the  bath  of  the  young  May  showers. 

While  the  flowers  and  zephyrs  fling  care  away 

May  not  young  hearts  do  the  same,  I  pray !     • 

A  song,  a  song,  for  the  summer's  queen, 
With  her  velvet  robe  of  emerald  green; 
She  weareth  a  wreath  on  her  sunny  brow; 
Roses,  some  crimson,  some  pure  as  snow; 
Her  jewels,  gleams  of  the  sunlight's  gold, 
AVhich  softeneth  her  robe's  rich  emerald  fold ; 
And  the  birds  of  the  forest  sing  gladly  out, 
Till  the  earth  is  thrilled  with  a  musical  shout. 
You  may  tell  of  April's  tears  and  smiles; 
Out  on  the  earth's  capricious  smiles ! 
And  sentiment  loves  the  "yming  May  moon," 
But  I  love  better  the  beautiful  June! 

A  song,  a  song  for  the  sunny  June, 

When  the  night  is  short,  and  the  day  comes  soon; 

And  after  the  long,  calm,  sunny  day, 

When  the  golden  sunlight  hath  fled  away, 


An  Idyl  of  the  Rose  361 

'Tis  glorious  to  watch  the  twilight  sky, 
To  sit  and  dream  till  the  heart  and  eye 
Droop  down,  all  full  to  running'  o'er, 
With  a  sense  of  joy  ne'er  felt  before. 
Oh !    I  was  born  in  a  southern  land, 
Where  the  dreamy  winds  are  always  bland, 
And  I  love  not  the  winter's  chilling  cold, 
And  its  icy  snows,  and  its  winds  so  bold : 
No !    give  me  the  summer's  genial  ray — 
I  would  it  were  beautiful  June  alway ! 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  ROSE. 

You  shall  see!     You  shallsee! 

Thus  he  panted  and  half  chanted, 
"  'Tis  a  secret  'twixt  us  three !" 

Blithe  and  brown,  and  light  and  free, 

He  was  singing,  lightly  swinging 
On  a  rose  spray,  nigh  to  me. 

And  a  queen  rose,  bright  of  bree, 

Just  above  him,  seemed  to  love  him, 
And  looked  downward  tenderly. 

Then,  in  sudden  ecstasy, 

Upward  flying,  sweetly  crying, 
"O  how  happy,  happy  we !" 

Nestled  close  beside  her,  he 

In  that  haven,  in  that  heaven, 
Still  sang  to  her:     ''You  shall  see!" 

And  so  well  did  they  agree, 

That  he  kissed  her,  said  "Sweet  Sister !" 
And  flew  downward,  happily. 


362  Later  Poems 

There,  in  that  same  tall  rose  tree, 
Closely  sitting,  without  flitting, 
On  a  nest  with  wee  eggs  three ; 

His  brown  wife  watched  patiently. 
His  mate  haunting,  sweetly  ranting, 
'Twixt  the  nest  and  rose,  flew  he ! 


In  the  nest  are  birdies  three ; 

Father,  mother — where's  the  other? 
What  are  these  upon  my  knee? 

Rose  leaves  dropped  down  fairily 

In  a  shower,  from  a  flower — 
She  will  never,  never  see ! 


Christmas  Eve  in  the  Tanana  363 


GREETINGS    FROM   THE   TANANA, 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  THE  TANANA. 

The  snow  drifts  like  a  christening  veil 
Above  some  wondrous  birth; 

The  hidden  gold  lies  waiting  for 
Its  call  to  upper  earth. 

The  feathery  branches  of  the  birch 

Make  shadowy  all  below 
Save  where  the  astral  light  of  heaven 

Rains  down  in  silvery  flow. 

O,  purest  shrine  to  worship  at ! 

O,  haunt  of  homeless  hearts ! 
In  thy  great  peace  strife  fades  away 

And  brutishness  departs. 

And  up  the  ladder  of  God's  light 
Climb  souls  that  once  did  grieve ; 

And  every  sight  and  sound  is  peace 
On  this  white  Christmas  Eve. 

0,  warring  world  that  lies  afar ! 

0,  shaken  tottering  world ! 
That  cries  and  crouches  lest  it  be 

Far  into  chaos  hurled. 

Beyond  these  barriers  of  ice 
One  haven  is  not  downtrod; 

One  unsoiled  spot  still  lives  and  loves 
Beneath  the  smile  of  God. 

Christmas,   1906. 


364  Later   Poems 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY  IN  THE  TANANA 

I  stood  within  a  charmed  ring, 
.;..    From  the  worn  world  far  away., 
Where  all  is  peace  and  purity 
Upon  the  Year's  first  day. 

Mysterious  'neath  a  veiled  sun, 
The  dim  day  garbed  in  white 

Melts  softly  to  her  vestal  couch 
'Mid  dreams  of  pure  delight. 

And  every  sight  and  every  sound 

Is  chastened  into  peace, 
And  far-off  discords  make  the  soul 

Give  thanks  for  pain's  surcease. 

New  Year's,   1907. 


NOME  GLORIFIED. 

What  are  you  there  for,  shabby  young  town  ? 

Why  in  the  world  do  you  sprawl  right  down 
Close  to  the  sea's  edge,  with  your  feet  in  it, 

And  ruin  threatening  you  every  blessed  minute? 
Fire  from  the  landslide  and  deluge  from  the  sea? 

Yet  you  look  lively  and  chipper  as  can  be, 
But  what  are  you  there  for? 

No !    Not  for  so  long  as  thy  shores  and  thy  hills 
Are  ripe  unto  bursting  with  that  which  fills 

The  need  'of  the  world ;  of  its  pillars  art  thou — 
Gold  diggers,  gold  seekers,  will  show  us  ho\v. 


Nome  Glorified  365 

Ah,  the  fire  may  burn  you,  and  the  waves  rush  up, 

And  of  disaster  be  full  your  cup; 
But  ever,  and  ever,  and  ever  again, 

You  will  rise,  tho'  you  have  lain. 
Stress  shall  not  kill  you, 

Nor  ravage  nor  pain. 

Oh,  Nome,  look  your  last, 

See  where  she  sat  'neath  the  midday  sun; 
But  of  her  and  her  moiling,  trace  there  is  none. 

Only  the  calm  skies  have  opened  wide. 

Is  it  all  gone,  like  a  myth,  like  a  dream? 

No  mean  little  shebangs,  no  yellow  gold  stream? 
Come,  for  the  hour  of  midnight  is  past, 

And  from  the  deck,  0  Nome,  look  your  last, 

See  where  she  sat  'neath  the  midday  sun, 

But  of  her  and  her  moiling,  trace  there  is  none. 

Only  the  calm  skies  have  opened  wide, 

And  she  and  her  greed  and  her  squalor  have;  died. 

Look,  'tis  on  all  new  heaven  and  earth,    -»v 
.Beyond  words  lovely  in  its  fair  birth,     . 
Far  behind  the  mountains,  the  glow  steals  up, 

And  the  ravishing  colors  together  run; 
Rose  and  purple  and  gold  wrap  and  enfold  her, 

Transfigure  and  hold  her. 

From  the  crown  of  her  head  to  the  tips, of  her  .feet, 
Over  the  waters,  where  slumber  is  sweet, 

In  the  heart  of  the  night,  with  its  cold  delight, 
Oh,  now  God  is  good  to.thee,  paltry  Nome! 


366  Later   Poems 


NEW  YEAR'S  GREETING  TO  ALASKA. 

1908. 

Alaska  !     Our  Alaska  ! 

Take  heart  and  face  the  dawn; 
Light  cometh  surely  unto  thee, 

And  shall  not  be  withdrawn. 
Joy  cometh  with  the  morn  to  thee, 

Although  so  long  delayed, 
Whilst  thou  hast  sat  in  darkness, 

Downcast,  but  not  afraid. 

Grope  in  the  dark  no  longer ! 

Stand  up  in  all  thy  strength! 
Thou  shalt  be  known  for  what  thou  art 

By  all  the  world  at  length. 
Thy  glory  shall  o'ershadow 

The  light  of  lesser  lands, 
And  they  shall  come  to  thee  at  last, 

With  eager,  outstretched  hands. 

But  thou  shalt  brush  them  from  thy  path 

As  gnats  that  crowd  the  air, 
The  worthless  and  the  cravens 

That  rob  and  speak  thee  fair; 
And  hope  to  keep  thee,  wondrous  land, 

Bound  in  their  own  base  toils, 
Neglected  by  a  government 

That  feeds  upon  thy  spoils! 

But  not  for  long,  Alaska ! 

The  stone  that  was  despised 
By  the  besotted  builders 


Prize  Poem  367 


For  greatness  was  devised. 
Stand  up  erect,  Alaska! 

The  world  has  need  of  thee, 
To  feed  its  poor,  to  pay  its  debts, 

To  set  its  victims  free ! 

1908. 


PRIZE  POEM. 

[After  carefully  considering  the  different  poems  submitted,  the 
publishers  picked  out  the  following  as  the  winner.  It  was 
written  by  Mrs.  Laura  C.  R.  Searing,  the  mother  of  Mrs. 
John  L.  McGinn.  She  has  written  many  short  sketches  for 
different  publications,  and  is  known  in  the  world  of  litera 
ture  as  Howard  Glyndon.  A  number  of  her  poems  have  been 
put  into  book  form,  and  one  volume  in  particular  met  with 
marked  success. — From  the  Fairbanks  (Alaska)  Times,  Octo 
ber  20,  1906.] 

THE  FIRST  DOG  TEAM  OVER  THE  TRAIL. 

'Tis  the  dear  delight  of  a  Malamute  dog 

To  sleep  out  of  doors  in  the  snow; 
And  curled  up  snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug, 

You  may  see  them  wherever  you  go, 
'Neath  the  keen,  frosty  stars  in  our  lively  town, 

As  soon  as  winter  sets  in ; 
But  all  the  same  each  one  comes  at  his  name 

When  the  tasks  of  the  trail  begin. 

Out  comes  the  master,  looking  much  like 

Santa  Glaus  in  his  holiday  togs. 
With  a  shrill  "Ki-yi !"  and  a  snapping  lash 

He  rouses  his  sleeping  dogs. 
"Hi!  here  you,  Captain!"     The  collar  goes  on 

The  big  leader's  willing  neck ; 
And  see  how  the  others  leave  off  playing 

And  bound  to  his  friendly  beck. 

"Move  en,  you,  Coffee !     Get  up,  you,  Bum ! 
Hootch,  you  scamp  !     Keep  in  place ! 


368  Later  Poems 

You  rascal,  Fritz !   you're  so  glad  you  can  hardly 

Let  me  fasten  the  trace!" 
Ki-yi !      Ki-yi !    Ting-a-ling,  ling,  ling  ! 

Mush  on,  you  frisky  fellows ! 
Till  the  dusk  shuts  down  on  the  glimmering  town, 

And  the  low  sun  fades  and  mellows. 

Ki-yi !    Ki-yi !    and  ho  !  for  the  trail ! 

Mush  on,  you  Malamute  scamps ! 
For  there's  nothing  so  dear  to  the  'Laska  dog 

After  a  summer  long  and  lazy, 
As  the  joy  of  the  trail  in  its  snowy  veil 

Through  the  woods  so  bare  and  hazy. 


TO  THE  ARCTIC  SUN. 
January  12,  1904. 


Hallo,  Sol!     That  you,  for  sure? 

Why,  you're  a  sight  to  make  sore  eyes  well ! 
Than  angels'  visits  yours  have  been  fewer 

For  a  long,  cold,  dreary  Arctic  spell. 

Now,  ol'  feller,  get  up  an'  rustle ! 

You've  left  us  so  long,  too  long,  in  the  dark. 
'Tis  you,  and  you  only,  that  keeps  us  awake. 
Come  to  stay?    Haven't  you?     Say  you  will! 

Can't  do  without  you— Old  Pard,  shake ! 

Eush  them  steeds  o'  your'n  from  their  cosy  quar 
ters, 

An'  drive  them  high  on  the  noontide  track; 
An',  glory  be,  but  we'll  make  things  sizzle, 

A-celebrating  your'comin'  back! 


Death  Trap  of  the  Snows  369 


DEATH  TRAP  OF  THE  SNOWS. 

[  V    body    was    found    buried   in    the    snow,    only    a   hand    being 
visible. — Extract  from  Nome  paper.] 

The  stainless  depths  of  the  treacherous  tundra, 

In  baffling  mystery,  melt  away 
In  the  far  beyond,  and  conquered  and  sullen, 

Where  the  day  is  night  and  the  night  is  day. 
Thou  ridest  high  in  the  Arctic  heavens, 

0,  Dian,  Goddess  of  icy  woes ! 
What  seest  thou  down  in  that  sinister  splendor, 

That  merciless  death  trap  of  the  snows? 

A  hand,  as  erect  as  if  carved  in  marble, 

As  still  as  marble  and  colder  than  death; 
The  snow  has  woven  its  shroud  about  him, 

But  he  lifted  his  hand  with  his  latest  breath ! 
Ah,  helpless  hand,  so  mutely  imploring 

For  life,  dear  life,  even  while  you  froze ! 
Poor  danger  signal !  that  waved  unheeded 

Above  that  tragedy  in  the  snows ! 

Yes,  when  the  awful  crmbat  was  over, 

And  death  set  his  foot  on  the  man's  cold  breast, 
That  lifted  hand  spoke  of  hope  unconquered, 

While  his  eyelids  drooped  in  the  last,  cold  rest. 
His  funeral  dirge,  the  wailing  death-note 

Of  his  faithful  dog,  keeping  watch  at  his  side ; 
No  other  sight  or.  sound  in  the  whiteness, 

Stretching  away  so  far  and  wide ! 

Thou  great  White  Silence  !      Thou  terrible  Threaten 
ing  ! 
That  puny  man  should  confront  thee,  sole. 


370  Later   Poems 

Ah,  but  the  inroads  he  makes  upon  thee 
Shall  win  him  yet  the  victory  whole. 

Meanwhile,  what  tragedies  pass  unwritten, 
What  dreadful  legends  surround  thee,  Nome? 

The  mad  encounter,  the  futile  resistance, 
The  snow-hid  grave  and  the  broken  he  me ! 

Nome,   Alaska,   Winter  of   1903. 


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